


Sheep in a Thicket

by OrionLady



Series: O Blessed Child [3]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A disfunctional one anyway, After a lot of pain and suffering, Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon? Who's That?, Consensual Amputation, Epic Friendship, Everyone Needs A Hug, Families of Choice, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Parent-Child Relationship, Protectiveness, Psychological Trauma, Reconciliation, Second Chances, Sleepy Cuddles, TBI, Team as Family, Trust Issues, and they get one!, is that a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-10-30 14:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 62,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20774102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionLady/pseuds/OrionLady
Summary: Peter wishes his first trip to Eastern Europe didn’t involve drugs or being tied up or men who can store knives down their boots. Now if said man would just tell him what that metal arm is made out of…Peter figures he deserves to know since it’s pointing a gun at his head.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I firmly believe that the events of every other movie following _Ultron_ would have turned out drastically different if Peter had been in their lives from the start, for good or ill. 
> 
> It's set shortly after my other work "Free Fall," but you can enjoy this one without reading that first. Series title taken from "O Blessed Child" by the Brothers Bright. 
> 
> Soundtrack for this story is "Six" by Sleeping at Last.
> 
> Alright, enough of my jabbering. Bon apetit, lovely people.

'My mind was heavy  
Running ragged with worst case scenarios  
Emergency exits and the distance below  
I woke up so worried that the angels let go.'

"Six" ~ Sleeping At Last

In the end, getting kidnapped turns out to be the most anticlimactic thing imaginable.

It’s not like that time a tactical team took him and Bruce in a hover car. It isn’t dramatic or filled with sirens or villain backtalk.

There’s just Peter, walking to his first day of school and listening to an audio book on Abraham Lincoln.

Then a short man walks up beside him. He flashes a winning, white teeth smile and pats Peter’s shoulder to get his attention.

Peter pops an earbud out, eyebrows up. “Can I help you?”

The man goes red and adjusts his glasses. “Yes. So sorry to bother you. You look like a local. I, uh…”

Peter hears the thick German accent, sees the map in his hands, and puts it together.

“You’re a t…tourist!” Peter smiles. He sees something circled on the map. “Trying to find Grand Central?”

“Ja! Think you can help me? All these alleys look the same.”

“It can be confusing,” Peter agrees. “Here. This dot is the entrance to Central Park. If you keep walking this way, y-you can take the subway to Times Square. It’ll be easier to catch from there.”

The man’s eyes light up, darting across the map. “I see it now! Danke, my good man!”

Peter shakes the man’s extended hand. “Not a problem…”

Maybe his powers are wonky from almost a year dormant. Maybe he’s too busy thinking about seeing Ned at school.

Whatever it is, Peter doesn’t notice the sharp prick in his palm until it’s already taken effect.

“Why, thank you!” the man says louder. “I’d love it if you accompany me! Such a polite youth.”

And he slings an arm around Peter’s shoulders like they are old friends.

It’s easy-as-you-please. The man walks him towards the curb.

And Peter…Peter loses feeling in his limbs. The paralytic takes effect in three blinks. He feels like he’s gained two hundred pounds.

_Scream! Kick! Do something!_

His body is offline, registering no commands.

Before his legs can buckle, the man gently lowers him into a waiting taxi Peter didn’t even see. He slides in beside Peter and taps the driver’s shoulder.

“I’m terribly sorry about all this inconvenience,” the man says, resting Peter’s head on his shoulder. “Just lean on me. Why don’t you close your eyes? That’s it. Good boy. We have a long journey ahead.”

Peter’s out before the car pulls away.

* * *

_Forty-eight hours earlier…_

It is only when eating breakfast alone that a _real _newspaper is snuck in from across the road. The crinkle of pages mixes with the sizzle of toast in the pan.

Steve sips orange juice at the island. There’s an article on the Yankees’ new pitcher but he’s feeling lazy this morning, barely reading it. His arms are still faintly tanned from their August vacation to Greece, something each of them had fervently needed.

_I could get used to this_.

He _will_ get used to this, having at least two more years to do so.

Glancing over at the stove, Steve sees that one of his bread pieces has vanished. He grins. Not _quite_ alone, then.

“‘Morning, love.”

The crunching sounds above Steve’s head pause long enough for a garbled, “Hey, Steve.”

Then teenage appetite kicks in and the toast is devoured. Steve keeps his eyes on the paper but hears the soft _th-shwick_ when Peter unsticks from the ceiling.

The boy lands quietly beside Steve. Even with him sitting on a stool and Peter standing, his son is barely the same height.

Steve keeps his voice to a murmur. “How’s the best swimmer in the world this fine morning?”

Peter rolls his eyes. It doesn’t hide a blush along the shell of his ears. “I _knew_ I wouldn’t live that down.”

“We would never have picked a boat out in the Mediterranean for vacation had we known you couldn’t swim.”

“Yeah, well.” Peter stands a little straighter. “I can now. A little.”’

Steve ruffles his hair. “That you can. Clint is a good teacher, huh?”

Peter leans into Steve, still sleepy eyed. “Yeah…”

Steve tugs him closer, brows puckered a little against his smile. It’s an expression he wears more and more lately. Curious.

Peter makes him see everything in the world differently. Everyday things like toast and breakfast are suddenly new, interesting. He’s enraptured watching little things—the way Peter’s fingers play with his sleeve, that dog he just _had _to stop and pet in Central Park, the dimple he has on one side of his lips but not the other, the cherub curls that stick to his lashes.

“You’re not front page news anymore.”

Steve shakes himself and glances to where Peter points. _Third_ page news. Some progress, at least.

It was half the reason for their vacation in the first place, to escape constant reporters and government officials.

“Thank heavens for that.” Steve pokes Peter’s ribs and mirrors the boy’s smile. “Who cares about retired superheroes anyway? Old news.”

“Old you say? Kind of like someone else who lives here?”

“Oh no.” Steve groans, wrapping one arm around Peter’s middle and standing. “It’s much too early for old jokes.”

“No, Steve!” Peter giggles, feet dangling off the floor. “Put me down!”

“What’s that? I can’t hear you. Deafness is common among the elderly.”

This sends Peter off into an entirely new batch of giggles. Steve puts his dishes in the sink to the feeling of Peter breathing under his hand.

He could _definitely_ get used to this.

Only when Peter holds his breath does Steve put him down. All in a rush, alarmed. “Sorry, Pete. You should’ve told me you couldn’t breathe.”

Peter doesn’t respond, eyes on the doorway, and Steve listens too. He hears the distant sound of Tony yelling. A one sided yelling match, so probably on the phone.

“Is the angry general still calling him?” Peter asks in a small voice.

Steve places a hand on the top of his head. He smooths hairs with his thumb. “Nothing for you to worry about, Pete.”

Peter frowns like he doesn’t agree with that but doesn’t push it. “Want me to t…take some breakfast to Bruce?”

Steve glances down at Peter. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know Tony doesn’t want me seeing him like this but…” Peter bites his lip. “I miss him.”

In an instant, Steve softens. “I miss him too. Friday, what is Dr. Banner doing at the moment?”

“_He has just woken up_,” the AI answers. “_And is getting dressed_.”

“How does he…seem?” Steve asks carefully. He doesn’t want to use words like ‘suicidal’ or ‘clinically depressed’ around Peter, though he probably knows already. “Are we talking a one or a nine?”

“_Two at most, Captain_.”

Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He scoops more eggs and toast onto a plate, handing it to Peter. The boy perks up at the prospect of seeing Bruce. He goes to grab the plate but Steve holds his side tightly.

Peter looks up in surprise.

“If you get overwhelmed,” Steve says, slowly, so Peter can take it in. “You call Friday to get me or you come right back here. Understand?”

Peter nods. “Of course.”

Steve smiles, relinquishing the plate, and turns back to the stove. “You’re the best.”

There’s a funny moment of silence following that. Steve glances over his shoulder to see Peter still in the doorway, bashful when he’s caught watching.

“What’s up?”

Peter bites his sleeve cuff and then pulls it out of his mouth once he apparently feels secure enough to talk. “I just…still can’t believe you guys retired from fighting. All six of you. For me.”

“I don’t regret it,” Steve says, hearing the unspoken question. “Not for a second. In fact, I wish we’d done this ages ago.”

Peter gets red all over again and flashes Steve one of those rare, sweet smiles that makes him look years younger.

Steve melts on the spot. Then Peter is gone.

The warm grin on Steve’s face, however, doesn’t leave all morning.

* * *

AC pumps full blast in the subterranean space. Peter is extra glad for his long sleeves today when he finishes climbing down all those stairs.

It’s the first time he’s been in this particular wing.

The farthest door is actually a double door. It’s all glass but there’s a haze to it that tells Peter it’s either bullet proof or not really glass. Probably both.

Through it, he can see gentle lighting, a spongy, heated linoleum floor, and large bedroom, a smidgen smaller than his school gymnasium.

It’s too big for the tiny man sitting on the floor. His back is against the bed, reading glasses on to make notes on what looks like a university article.

Bruce’s pen scratches through a whole paragraph of text. “That’s wrong,” he mutters. “Collision theory doesn’t cover this…”

Bruce wears sweat pants and little else. Above the waist band Peter can see the dark line of his “stretchy shorts.”

Peter swallows. He’s only met the Hulk once because Bruce always comes here when he’s rearing to get out.

There’s a complicated keypad on the double door latch so Peter settles for knocking on the not-glass.

Bruce’s head darts up. He looks relieved to see it’s just Peter. “Good morning. Is that breakfast? Tony usually brings it down.”

Peter nods.

“Friday, let him in.”

The doors slide open and Peter tries out a grin. “Guess I’m Tony today.”

“How are you, Peter? Excited for school tomorrow?”

Peter nods again. Bruce’s voice is calm and collected. He maintains eye contact with Peter while speaking. If it weren’t for the clammy tinge to Bruce’s face or the way his hands twitch around the paper, Peter would never have known something was amiss.

“Good.” Bruce smirks. “Because you need to grow up to write better articles than these dunderheads.”

Peter huffs a laugh. “I’m a high school science student. Not a PhD candidate.”

Bruce squints at him around a mouthful of eggs. “You’re already smarter than this candidate, trust me.”

They share the toast, Peter sitting close to Bruce’s knee. Between their munching, Peter points out more inaccuracies in the paper. Whoever this man is does not know his positrons.

At last, Peter can no longer keep it to himself. “Bruce, why are you down here? No one will tell me. You don’t seem angry or upset.”

They make a brief moment of intense eye contact and Peter gets his answer anyway. Bruce isn’t furious.

He’s _scared_.

The sheer amount of terror behind those chocolate eyes is staggering.

“That’s why you let me into the room,” Peter realizes aloud. “I was surprised when you did. You know Hulk’s not a real threat right now.”

Bruce looks away, scratching the back of his neck. “Peter…it’s a long story. But you’re correct in that I’m hiding away right now. I needed to feel…”

Peter’s nodding before the man can finish. “Safe. You needed to feel safe.”

Bruce is silent for a long time. Then he nods, very slowly. His eyes have that shiny quality, mind far away from Hulk out rooms and scrawny sixteen years olds.

Every instinct knows better, but Peter asks the question anyway. “Are you afraid of Ross?”

Like he’s been backhanded, Bruce jerks. “How do you know that name? You’re not supposed to know. Tony’s been—”

“Very careful, yes.” The heated floor pulses under Peter’s feet where they are pulled close to his chest, in time with his heartbeat. “He can’t exactly micromanage my school life, though.”

Bruce blinks at him.

“My political science unit,” Peter elaborates. “We’re studying proposed bills at the moment. The Accords.”

He grabs Bruce’s hand before the man can zone out again. It seems to release some of the tight wheezing coming from his lungs. Bruce rubs his free hand over his face. The easy going smile drops faster than Peter’s stomach.

Bruce’s fingers are cold. Peter squeezes them and this time Bruce’s smile is weaker than diluted milk.

But it’s _real_.

“How do you do that?” asks Bruce.

Peter tilts his head. “Do what?”

“Make me feel better in my lowest points?”

There a whole _ton_ of answers Peter could give to that. He settles for honesty. “Bruce…I’ve heard about your low points. I don’t think this counts.”

The smile doesn’t leave Bruce’s face but his eyes sharpen, dark and roiling.

“You might be surprised, Peter.”

Not for the first time, Peter’s lost at the connection between Bruce and this Ross. Who is he? Why do they hate each other so much?

He thinks about black, Kevlar clad men and decides maybe he doesn’t want to know after all.

“And I…I’m not exactly excited for tomorrow. Nervous. Don’t wanna face everyone.”

Bruce appraises Peter for a beat, eyes wandering over the boy’s face. There’s a greying curl looped around the arm of Bruce’s glasses. It is such a Peter-ish look that his insides twist, caramel warm.

He’ll have people to watch him grow up, to get married and have a life.

“Peter, did I ever tell you about what happened after Ultron?”

Peter shakes his head.

Bruce snorts. “Now there’s a story. Hulk tried to bail because of some…trust issues.”

It’s blatantly obvious that Bruce is censoring this story but Peter doesn’t call him out on it.

“The quinjet registered it was flying too high and overrode the other guy’s commands, setting a course for the compound. Normal protocol. Who knows where I would’ve ended up.”

Peter squeezes their hands again.

Bruce leans down to tap Peter’s forehead with his nose. “Point of all this is that I had to face the others, even though I didn’t want to. Tony talked Hulk back down into my body and then all six of us had a serious conversation about our future.

“Tony messed up. Nat messed up. I messed up. And to put it in perspective—this ‘conversation’ consisted of two days where none of us slept, just sat on those couches and talked.”

“Can’t run away from my problems,” says Peter, guessing the moral here.

Bruce shakes his head, breath ruffling Peter’s own curls. “No, Peter. Well, I suppose that’s one takeaway. But do you know what was born of all that deliberation and clearing the air?”

Peter gazes up at the doctor, spellbound. “What?”

“_You_.”

A clap of shock rings over Peter. He’s always assumed Tony just found his video on YouTube one day and brought him in as an afterthought, in case one of the original six couldn’t make it to a mission. A substitute.

“The point,” says Bruce, “Is that if we hadn’t moved forward, if we had chosen to disband that day, we would never have met, never gotten to know you.”

There’s a strange catch in Bruce’s voice. He takes off his glasses. His eyes are shiny again but completely in the present. “You can’t reap the rewards if you don’t take the leap and trust people.”

Peter grins. “Can I put that on a T-shirt?”

This startles a laugh out of Bruce. “Only if the back has a graffiti-ed photo of Tony with a marker goatee and glasses.”

“Done.”

Bruce resumes his red pen murder of the article. “You’ll do great at school tomorrow, Peter. If they’re really your friends, they’ll move forward with you, not away. _That’s_ the point.”

Peter hums his agreement. He glances at a thermal scanner in the corner, the hidden depressions in the wall. They’re just large enough for an equally hidden gun to fire a bullet.

They’re certainly not for the Hulk.

“Tony’s pretty protective of you, huh? This Ross guy must be bad news.”

Bruce’s eyes continue scrolling down the page but he reddens. “That Fourth of July incident really scared him. I feel like a goldfish.”

“A _well protected_ goldfish.”

“Sure. That’s the nice way of saying I have an overbearing best friend who goes so far as to cut up my steak so I don’t choke.”

Peter buries his face against Bruce’s shoulder. “Welcome to my world.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s lips thin and he sucks in a breath through his nose, noisy in the dead silent room. 
> 
> “Two years ago and I would have answered your question with a definite ‘yes.’ Fighting was my life but domesticity was the worst battle field of all. I could never have what I fought for. I couldn’t wait to die.”
> 
> Peter’s grip tightens.

“Tell them he’s worse than dangerous. No! You do not get to yell at me in judicial court and then demand my help! That’s not how this works!”

Despite the caustic tone, his voice is quiet, soft even. An angler fish’s lull before it bites down. Not that there is any reason to be muted in this sound proofed room.

At five in the morning, the beginnings of dawn spill over the treetops, through the wall length windows. Just a hint of the heat this unseasonably warm September day will bring.

Steve’s shoes make no sound on the springy flooring. He leans on the ballet barre, arms folded and face neutral, hoping it will project something non-confrontational for when Tony turns around from his agitated pacing.

“Rumlow?”

Steve straightens.

Tony’s expression falls slightly, duplicated in the row of mirrors.

With a rushed intake of breath, Steve crosses the studio. Tony holds up a hand without turning around. “I’m not doing this for you…I’ll be on the next flight out.”

Hanging up, Tony scrubs a hand through his hair. He finally swivels on his heel. “Joint chiefs are milking that ‘advising’ clause in our statement.”

Steve forces himself to resume leaning on the barre. “Still angry about the hiatus announcement, huh?”

Tony isn’t fooled by the casual tone, locking onto Steve’s eyes.

For a long time Steve’s world is nothing but the pulsing in and out of veins in Tony’s face. The twitch around his upper jaw. His mouth’s tsunami-like rise and curl.

“Where?” asks Steve.

“Near Nigeria.”

“I’m going.”

“Absolutely not.” Tony slashes his hand downwards. “Sure, you know Rumlow’s style, his weaknesses, but that just means he knows yours too. He’ll exploit you.”

Steve feels the phantom sting of a taser around his ribs. He doesn’t realize he’s made an agonized sound until Tony’s eyes fall even further. Something bubbles up in them, hot and empathetic.

“Hey. Steve, I get it. But I already fished your shield out of the water once when you wouldn’t let me help you. Let’s learn from our mistakes, shall we?”

Then Steve spends another few minutes in a stare off with the floor.

“The army is handling it,” says Tony, “And I promised to go and consult on clean up. That was our agreement, remember? We’re on hiatus because that child comes first now. We help in an advising role only. No fighting.”

“Rumlow’s dangerous,” says Steve, stalling.

“I know. You heard me tell them that.”

Steve’s eyes lift, though his head does not. “What about Ross?”

Tony scoffs. “The UN is treating Ross like the joke he is. He’s not a threat anymore, not after he tried to kidnap a physicist and a teenager. The Accords have been scrapped in favour of our own documented statement. Pepper helped draft it, a protocol for superheroes—not us—who do overseas missions.”

A pebble rolls around in Steve’s forehead, pain both real and imagined. Memory pain. Escaped pain.

“Steve? You can trust me, you know.”

Steve finally takes a deep, genuine breath. Tony has dropped any dramatic armour and stands there with his arms at his sides, completely open, letting Steve read his face. He’s an unsolvable puzzle that way.

“Steve?”

“I do trust you.” Steve says the words and they sound like his heartbeat. “I…I let Rumlow get away the first time.”

“Ah.” Something clears in Tony’s face. “Guilt. Got it. Guilt I can work with.”

He heads for the door, straightening his tie. “Besides. We have a much more important mission now.”

Like two phantoms, Steve follows Tony out of Nat’s ballet studio and down the darkened hallway. With their resident spies on vacation at the farm and Thor away to deal with “family issues,” the compound is rather deserted. It’s the reason they don’t run into anyone on their trek down the stairs and into a smaller, cozier bedroom.

Tony opens the door and navigates silently around a beanbag chair and a study desk. The dim lighting takes a minute to adjust to.

Steve’s head swirls with arguments and their no-fighting agreement and the memory of Rumlow lunging for him in that elevator…

He doesn’t hear what Tony says to Peter in a low murmur. The boy’s eyes are still closed, lashes clumped with sleep. He only wakes when Tony’s hand brushes from his hair to his cheek.

It’s like all the exhaustion hit Peter at once on their Mediterranean vacation. He can’t seem to sleep enough, finally making it through a whole night without any traumatic memories interrupting. Clint has found him asleep against the door, on the ceiling, tucked under a table.

The whole month has passed this way. Steve finally relaxed, knowing he wouldn’t hear screams down the hall.

“S’ve?” a higher, slurred voice asks.

Tony smiles, that big, goofy one he can’t seem to stifle when Peter looks young like this. “Yeah. Stevie’s on watch. I’ll be back so fast you won’t even notice I’m gone. I just have to call MIT and tell them I can’t give that speech today.”

Peter's lips turn up a little, cheeks flushed. “Come?”

“Of course you can come to MIT with me. We’ll tell Principal Morita you’re sick and everything.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

Then Tony’s crinkled face drops. He gazes for a long moment at Peter. “You’ll be great. First day of eleventh grade. I’m proud of you, Pete. No matter what.”

Peter links his pinky finger through Tony’s in that new gesture they repeat often. “No matter what.”

“That’s right,” says Tony again, “no matter what.”

The tumult in Steve’s chest dissipates. He’s still troubled over not facing the one who knowingly took Bucky away from him, but here, looking at this son none of them deserve, he breathes easier.

Tony nods at Peter and it is somehow more loving than any kiss or hug he could give.

Then he is gone with a quick look at Steve. Steve mirrors that nod, open. It’s a promise.

“Steve?”

Peter, on his right side, has his legs tucked up to his chest. A blanket is half off him, probably from where he overheated in the night, if the patchy, flushed cheeks and sweat curled roots are anything to go by.

His eyes are dazzling, even in the dark, half lidded.

The sight steals several beats of Steve’s heart. Something so rare, unfathomably precious, staring back at him. 

Peter is too tiny even now. The doctors can’t figure out why he won’t grow.

His metabolism, let alone his healing factor, were shut down for such a long period that they don’t seem to be compensating an inch. They all know Tony worries over it late into the night, poring over charts and nutrient formulas.

Now, lax with sleep, Peter has the looks of someone three years younger. It’s like he’s barely changed from when they met him. 

He’s still the most beautiful thing Steve’s ever seen.

Steve comes over and kneels down, his elbows resting on the bed. “Hey, Frodo. Sorry for waking you so early; we figured you’d want to say goodbye to Tony before he left. Just you, me, and Bruce in the compound for the week.”

“Bad one?”

Steve grins at the boy’s clipped way of talking. “Nothing big, no. Just a little squabble in Africa. Tony benched me because I’m too close to this one.”

Peter’s eyes droop a little, then suddenly snap back open. He lifts a wobbly hand off his mattress and the pads of his fingers close ever so gently around Steve’s nose.

Steve stills, letting the hand roam from his nose to his hair, clamping in the blonde locks still wet from the shower.

The hand is unsteady, Peter’s depth perception not fully awake, but he manages to smooth his smaller fingers over Steve’s eye lids and cheek and ears before his arm tires. Steve again feels the slow close and the slight pressure of finger nails around his nose.

To an outsider, it might seem like a childish action, some long lost toddler habit in Peter’s mind surfacing when he’s not fully conscious.

Steve knows better.

He sees the solemn gaze also roaming over his face.

Peter grips Steve’s hair in a butterfly light grip as if to keep his arm upright. Steve leans into the forearm brushing his right cheek.

Always so tiny…

“You’re not that old,” Peter whispers.

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. He closes his mouth when he realizes he’s gaping. “I thought we had this conversation yesterday.”

Peter doesn’t fall for the tease. “You’re only twenty four. Must be tough sometimes.”

Steve has absolutely no idea what to say to that so he just leans forward and kisses Peter’s own nose. The boy blinks. He twitches his nose as if to make sure it’s still there.

With a soft chuckle, Steve tenderly pries the hand out of his hair and holds it. “What’s up, baby boy?”

Peter shifts. Steve’s heightened sense of touch can make out striated whorls in Peter’s fingerprints, all five of them closed around Steve’s. He feels Peter’s bird wing heartbeat. The rush of blood under the boy’s skin. He feels the mattress dip when Peter leans his head back on the pillow to better meet Steve’s eyes.

“S…Are you…sad you’re not goin’ instead of Tony? That you agreed…no fighting?”

It’s a jumbled mess of a question.

Steve understands it perfectly. It makes the backs of his eyes burn. He has to inhale and exhale, deliberately, a few times.

Peter, apparently unnerved by Steve’s pause, rearranges his fingers so they’re fisted around Steve’s thumb joint.

“Peter…”

“Sorry I asked.”

“No, Peter. You have no need to apologize.” Steve uses the top joint of his thumb to rub Peter’s knuckles. He sifts through how to answer. “You know what PTSD is, right?”

A beat passes. Peter nods, brows drawn. “You have it.”

“In a weird way, we all have it.”

Peter says nothing. It is strange yet appropriate for their crazy lifestyle, Steve thinks, that such aged and somber eyes gaze out from such a young, stunted body.

“But when it was…particularly bad, to the point where it controlled my life, I…”

Steve’s lips thin and he sucks in a breath through his nose, noisy in the dead silent room.

“Two years ago and I would have answered your question with a definite ‘yes.’ Fighting was my life but domesticity was the worst battle field of all. I could never have what I fought for. I couldn’t wait to die.”

Peter’s grip tightens.

“It scared me too. And even on days it didn’t, it was always something sharp, keeping me out from being a part of the life I was so eager to leave behind. Don’t you see, Peter?”

Peter breathes raggedly. 

Steve laughs but it’s not a steady sound. “This is everything I never thought I’d get to have. So, no. Not for one bloody second do I regret not going. I’m excited to _not fight_, to enjoy _this_ for the rest of my life.”

The room’s lighting hasn’t changed but Peter’s eyes flash. He sums up all the words swimming in his stare by scooting forward, forehead pressed to Steve’s chest.

“Steve.”

Steve huffs another wet and broken sound. He closes his eyes, cups the boy’s head closer, and feels truly home since the day his mother died. “_Peter_.”

* * *

(_The back of the boat hinges down into a kind of ramp. Water pools over it, close to the sitting area of the deck. Clint holds onto it in shock. _

_Balmy winds float over the boat. They aren’t what raise goosebumps on Peter’s skin where he crosses them defensively over his bare chest._

_“What do you mean you can’t swim? Peter!” Clint’s mouth drops open again. “Are you telling me you’ve _never_ learned?”_

_Peter says nothing. Seagulls screech overhead. _

_“Do the others know?”_

_Peter hesitates. Shakes his head. _

_And Clint bobs up and down in the water, treading with his legs. His jaw clenches, teeth tight. Something about those grey eyes brightens when they fix on Peter, ribs starkly visible, blue swim trunks too big for his pointy hip bones._

_“Do you trust me, Peter?”_

_A pause. Peter looks at his feet. “You’re a good swimmer.”_

_“But do you _trust _me?”_)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn’t your Hardy Boys kidnapping, where a villain ties him up and forces him to reveal some secret about his identity. 
> 
> This is just Peter Parker, lying on a hardwood floor somewhere far from home, in a shocked staring match with some guy who looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. 
> 
> He looks more surprised to see Peter than Peter is to see him.

_Present Day_…

Peter has one immediate, all encompassing thought the instant he’s conscious:

_The sirens are too slow. _

They don’t sound right.

Seriously. Have you ever heard a New York cop car?

It’s all _Breeoo!Breeoo!Breeoo!Breeoo!Breeoo!_

In the distance, these sirens are slow and mournful, like a widow wailing out her balcony. Weird.

Peter’s second thought is his heightened senses picking up a family arguing several floors below.

They’re not speaking English.

Thirdly, Peter feels an ache in his nose from where it is mushed against a hard floor and tastes blood from a tea towel gagged around his jaw. He’s sprawled on his right side. He feels a wall at his back.

He can’t move his hands, even though they rest in front of him.

The couple stops arguing.

Peter stiffens. His heart rate goes through the roof.

For some reason, this sudden, absolute silence ignites fear more than anything else. It sounds almost like the people in apartments below got…cut off.

Nothing is more terrifying right now than opening his eyes. Peter takes stock of himself for an excuse not to do it.

The last thing he remembers is Steve dropping him off a block or so away from Midtown (a pitiful attempt at drawing less attention to the fact superheroes are now his parents.) A parting wave and a Disney joke.

Abraham Lincoln.

Then…nothing.

Wait. A tourist? Something about Grand Central?

The footsteps are so quiet that Peter hears the jangle of a key before he notices them. Someone is unlocking a door above him and to his left, near his feet. That same someone swears softly in a Slavic language.

Peter’s eyes fly open.

He doesn’t see what he wants to. No compound bedroom. No Clint wearing plaid.

Just a dingy apartment with peeling paint, mildewed trim, and some bugs scuttling under the table. No pictures or furnishings of any kind.

Peter doesn’t care much about this, however. His eyes are glued out the kitchen window. It’s directly across from him and the curtains are open. A perfect view.

Of a perfume billboard ad. In Cyrillic.

And a skyline that is definitely _not at all _New York.

Nausea sweeps through his frame in a bubbling wave. His ears ring. It’s unspeakable to face, but Peter knows he’s not even on the right continent.

“What the hell…”

Peter’s eyes dart back at the gruff, astounded voice.

A dark haired man, grocery bag in one hand and apartment keys in the other, stares at Peter from under a ball cap.

Peter stares back.

None of this makes any sense at all. This isn’t your Hardy Boys kidnapping, where a villain ties him up and forces him to reveal some secret about his identity.

This is just Peter Parker, lying on a hardwood floor somewhere far from home, in a shocked staring match with some guy who looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

He looks more surprised to see Peter than Peter is to see him.

It all hits at once. That he’s bound, at this man’s mercy, and the heavy metal uni-cuff encasing his hands is strong enough even he can’t break it.

Peter is shaking before he takes his next breath.

“Okay, easy.” The man crouches low. He tucks the keys back in his jacket pocket so he can hold it, gloved palm out. He throws the groceries near the table. His voice is carefully measured. “I’m not coming any closer. I’m staying right here, kid.”

Blinking becomes a luxury, as Peter doesn’t take his eyes off the man for a second. 

“Right here. I promise. I get that you’re scared and probably in pain. But I’m not going to hurt you.”

Peter swallows a mouthful of his own blood. His nostrils flare against the top lip of the towel.

“How’d you even get here?” the man murmurs, more to himself. “My door wasn’t tampered with…”

Peter can’t answer him anyway. He wants the towel off but the thought of the man’s hands near his head is enough to send him into an even greater panic.

It’s Derrick Henderson all over again. He’s helpless _again_.

Tears well up. They fall, thick and hot, down Peter’s cheeks and onto the floor.

“Hey, hey.” The man startles. “Just take some deep breaths, alright? The last thing I need is you passing out on me.”

He stills. Tilts an ear up.

Then the man does a strange thing.

He stands, moving slow and keeping his front to Peter at all times. But he does a circuit of the one room apartment, flipping up cushions with guns taped underneath and opening cupboards—_is that a grenade?_

The man’s hands are completely steady when he tucks every single weapon, five total, into his pockets.

His last trick is to lift a floorboard and sling a backpack over his shoulders.

At last, Peter hears it too: booted footfalls running up the stairs. A lot of them. More than Peter’s ears can calculate. There are sharp, mechanical clicks too.

He knows that sound.

Rifles being loaded.

The whimper is choked against the towel between his teeth but Peter lets it rip anyway. He’s going to die in this dingy hovel and none of his parents will ever know.

Suddenly the man is at his side, closer than before. “Kid, I know you just met me but I didn’t do this. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Peter watches the man’s hand slowly stretch for his cheek. “May I take the towel off? The officers are probably coming for me, not you. You’ll be safer with them. This nightmare will be over for you soon.”

Peter shakes his head, blinking the blurriness of tears away. The man takes this as a lack of permission and pulls his hand back.

Peter moans again.

“Hey, little man.” The man brushes his exposed hand over Peter’s hair, like he can’t help himself.

It is clearly an automatic, ingrained gesture. Peter is plywood at first, board stiff, but as the hand pets, he relaxes. This man has had over fifteen minutes alone with Peter and the worst he’s done is swear in a foreign language.

“I’m so sorry for whatever mess someone dragged you into. You woke up here?”

Peter nods. He struggles to form sounds. “S’g’ol.”

The man’s brows furrow. He mutters to himself in Russian before asking, “School? You were on your way to school?”

Peter nods, faster.

A cherry bomb of fury sparks in the man’s eyes. It turns his lips into shrapnel, warped from the heat of his ire into a scowl.

Peter pales. He pushes back against the wall, a futile effort for more space between him and the man.

“No, _no_.” The man shuffles back on his knees, hands up. “I’m not angry at you, kid. I’m going to leave now, okay? You tell those police the truth, that you were kidnapped and dumped here in a strange man’s apartment. The end.”

The man stands, adjusting the pack on his shoulders. He faces the window like he wants to run straight through it.

Peter writhes, banging the cuff on the floor.

The man whips around. “Kid! Stop making noise or they’ll think I’m stabbing you—”

Peter has no way of communicating but he meets the man’s eyes dead on and pleads, funnels every ounce of urgency into his expression.

The man bolts back to his side and cuts the towel away in one smooth motion. The knife is gone before Peter can freak out about how close it was to his cheek. The man unwraps the towel from Peter’s face since his hands are out of commission.

He takes a deep breath to yell but ends up vomiting instead. It surges up from Peter’s gut at light speed, catching him off guard.

The man doesn’t seem to care, only shuffling calmly to the side with a hand on Peter’s back.

“Let it out.” He frowns a bit at the blood mixed in with Peter’s stomach bile but doesn’t say anything. “That’s what you wanted, right? To call for the officers outside?”

Peter shakes his head. His voice is a cracking, hoarse mess. “What if they’re Hydra?”

The man stills, face going cold. “How does a scrawny kid like you know about—”

“No time!” Peter leans on the man’s chest because the world insists on spinning. “They’ll kill me.”

Peter suddenly knows it. Realizes he’s known it since he heard the rifle magazine clips being loaded.

_My spider sense_. He actually jumps. _My spider sense is working again! For the first time in over a year!_

The man jumps too. He loops an arm around Peter’s shoulders to keep him upright. “Don’t know why…but I think you’re right.”

His eyes lower briefly to the floor, skipping back and forth. It’s only then Peter wonders why the arm at his back is so hard. Why the man’s first impulse had been to run instead of calling the actual police.

“I’m dangerous.” The man glances at his front door and apparently comes to a decision. “But they’re lethal. Come on.”

The man hefts Peter to his feet. Which is the exact moment when Peter realizes he can’t feel them.

_Stupid drugs. Why is it always drugs?_

The man hardly pays the limp pool noodle of a teen in his arms a second look. He simply swings Peter up so the boy is on his hip, Peter’s chest pressed to the man’s right shoulder. Peter sorts out his bound arms, sandwiched between their chests.

“Wait—what—”

“Keep your head down, kid.” The man presses gently on the back of Peter’s hair to tuck the boy’s chin. “This is going to hurt a bit.”

“Peter.”

That stops the man. “What?”

“My name is Peter,” he says, muffled by fabric.

The man goes rigid all over. “…Never give out your name so easily, kid. Peter. Could get you in trouble.”

Peter trembles, but he’s smiling. “If we’re going to do some fire escape climbing, I figure I could at least give you my name.”

This time the hesitation isn’t the man deliberating over whether to bring Peter with him.

“We…we are going down the fire escape…right?”

The man says nothing. He backs up so he’s at the far wall, right where Peter had been lying minutes earlier. Peter wants to lift his head, to see what the man is doing, but he knows to keep his head curled downwards.

The first bullet flies through the door. Pain explodes in Peter’s back. He yelps.

The man bursts into a dead sprint.

And then he does, in fact, run straight through the window.

Peter screams into his shoulder when glass and metal rain through their hair. Though hysterical, he forces himself to unwind, to make the man’s job easier.

Peter only opens his eyes for a blip but it’s enough to see traffic six stories below. The window rushes away from them.

Falling.

They’re free falling.

The man’s free arm windmills in coordinated tandem with his legs. For one beautiful push of blood through Peter’s veins, he knows what it is to be weightless, truly flying.

The world implodes.

Even when learning to use his webs, how to swing from skyscrapers, Peter never felt an impact like this.

His mouth bleeds instantly from something he bit down on. There’s gravel up his nose, something tearing at his ears, and an iron pinch around his waist that’s nearly strong enough to crack Peter’s ribs.

His ears pop. Again and again and again.

_Not popping._ _Gunfire!_

The man finally finishes rolling. They’ve almost been flung apart, but the man’s left arm holds Peter in a human seatbelt. Blood spatters the rooftop they’ve landed on.

Black lines the edges of Peter’s vision like the velvet on Tony’s suits. So soft. Warm. His heart clenches. He wants Tony. He wants to feel calloused hands on his face and throwing popcorn at him and…

“Oh no. Don’t black out on me now, Peter. We’ve got to move.”

The man picks him up bridal style this time. Peter marvels that he isn’t limping. The only sign anything happened to him is the wild hair and a busted lower lip. Maybe there are injuries Peter can’t see.

Peter’s head lolls under the man’s chin. Both of their shirt fronts are covered in blood. His cheek still gushes inside.

“W’na go h’m.”

“You know what?” The man glances over his shoulder. “Me too, kid. It was a dumpy apartment but at least I had running water.”

The blinding sunlight disappears. Stairs, Peter sees through his hazy vision. They’re climbing down the roof access stairs. A dark, cold cement tunnel.

“I just realized something. You don’t have a Romanian accent.”

Peter wants to suck on his shirt sleeve but it’s trapped under the cuffs. “Queens.”

“The Queen? You don’t sound British.”

Peter sees the tiny smirk on the man’s face and is startled by it, the first positive expression he’s witness to.

_Amusement. He’s teasing me._

The man takes pity on Peter. “Queens? Like New York?”

Peter nods and the man whistles, low and long. “You’ve had quite the trip, then.”

It’s impressive, really. The way the man keeps his tone light even though his breathing has skyrocketed and Peter feels a gun at the side under his knees.

Then the man swings out _another_ window. With his right he holds Peter by his waist and with the other he free climbs downwards. It’s a feat of human athleticism and it leaves even Peter awed.

A helicopter circles overhead but they’re scaling the shady side of the building, near the dumpsters.

Peter snorts a laugh through his bloody nose.

“What? Peter?”

“Ironic.”

“What’s ironic?” The man lands on his feet and hunkers behind a stack of pallets until a Romanian police car zooms by. He taps Peter’s cheeks. “Don’t leave a guy hanging.”

_Hanging, ha! Even funnier…_

Peter’s dizzy with vertigo, blood loss, and the drugs still fading from his system. The sky is a strobe of colours above him. He wants to laugh, to tell a joke about sticky hands and scaling down the sides of buildings.

“_Peter_!”

He’s out before the man finishes pulling the grenade pin with his teeth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hits Steve in a rush. All in one gulp, forcing down bad medicine. He shoots to his feet. 
> 
> “No.” He lifts his eyes to the ceiling as if Friday is a real entity he can intimidate. “No. You’re wrong.”
> 
> _“I am sorry, Captain._”

A mug of steaming vegetable soup appears under his nose. He pushes it away.

“Come on,” says Bruce, crouching down. “Brooding is my thing. If I can leave the safety of my ‘anger room’ for this, you can eat.”

Even though five people huddle around the living room, it is completely still. Other than a news report playing on low in the background, Bruce’s voice is the only stimulus.

“You’re no good to us dead,” Bruce pushes on. “How about a deal: if you eat, I’ll call Ross.”

Tony rushes forward. “Uh, no. That was not part of our bribe-Rogers-so-he’ll-eat-scheme. Not a chance, Bruce.”

Bruce gives Tony a hard look. “If this is what it takes, then I’ll do it. Ross has more resources than we do. He’s probably the one who ordered this whole thing.”

Steve finally lifts his head from where it’s been clasped in his hands for the last two hours. He sits on the floor, back to the couch. Knees drawn so tight they ache.

He hasn’t spoken a word since the school called and nobody has expected him to.

“Don’t punish yourself.” Bruce’s tone is softer this time, almost whispering. “It doesn’t get anywhere. It won’t find Peter. Eating and being ready to fight when the time comes gets us somewhere. Take it from probably the world’s leading authority.”

Steve’s lips twitch in the ghost of a smile at the echo of his words all those years ago. Bruce mirrors it, brighter.

“There he is. Let’s eat.”

Bruce changes tactic so they’re both sharing the mug. Steve recognizes the strategy but accepts it anyway. They drink soup and pass it back and forth.

For a time, Steve’s world zeroes down to soup. Bruce’s warm shoulder against his. Natasha quietly talking on a cellphone. Hot mug on his hands.

Night falls, a theater curtain swishing fast across the world.

Natasha crouches on Steve’s other side. She doesn’t offer him anything or touch him, just gazes into his eyes, her sweatpants rumpled. It reminds him how quickly they packed up and flew here.

“Why didn’t the school call us earlier? You got the call at what, four?”

It takes Tony a minute to realize the question is directed at him, since Nat’s eyes are still on Steve.

Tony frowns. “Five, actually.”

The mug pauses on the way to Bruce’s lips. “They didn’t report him missing until the _end_ of the day?”

Tony rubs at his forehead, like it’s a magic lamp that might poof Peter home safe and sound. “Morita thought Peter was still on vacation with us, that he wasn’t coming back until next week. He only called because his friend, that Leeds kid, put up a fuss.”

This sobers the room further.

At the thud of new footsteps, Steve lifts his head again. Sam doesn’t look at any of them in his march to the corner television. His eyes are on his phone. “DMV just sent over footage. All _nine hours_ of it. Good luck to us.”

“Remind me to send Ned a fruit basket,” says Tony. “Or a video game basket. Hell, I’ll buy him Coney Island if this pans out.”

Bruce glances at Tony. “Rhodey on his way?”

“Yep. Once he’s finished transporting Rumlow to Homeland Security. Successful take down and all that jazz.”

Steve’s gut churns and churns. Like acid boiling him from the inside out. It makes him feel cold and sweating all at once.

He jumps when something warm touches his hand.

Bruce startles too. “Sorry. I reheated the thermos.”

Did he? Steve hadn’t even noticed the man get up and come back. Bruce resumes his position next to Steve. This time the thermos is full of lemongrass tea. Steve takes a tentative sip and finds it just the right temperature. He thanks Bruce with a tacit nod, which his friend returns.

Sam connects his phone to the television’s HD port.

A collective groan rises from Bruce and Tony.

There has to be at least forty camera angles, tiny boxes crammed into the TV frame and scrolling in real time.

Steve clears his throat. It must sound hesitant, because then Bruce is placing a comforting hand on his knee.

“Take your time,” the physicist says. “It’s not your fault.”

_Yes it is_. It is absurd that no one has blamed him yet. _You should have ignored Peter’s request and driven him right to the school doors. _

“The pizzeria,” says Steve out loud instead. “I dropped him off at Mario’s on the corner. Start there.”

Sam scrolls down an endless line of camera codes. Steve vaguely wonders how he can decipher them all, then realizes they are grouped by sectors. MD - Midtown.

Something burns Steve’s hand and he looks down to see he’s sloshed tea everywhere. Including on Bruce’s pants.

Bruce doesn’t even notice, riveted by Sam enlarging one of the screens.

And there he is.

Steve, in a grey Lexus, waves through the windshield at Peter’s tiny profile. Peter closes the door, hitching a pair of headphones up his ears. The grainy feed shows Peter with thumbs through his backpack straps, listening to that beloved audio book while meandering down the street.

And out of frame.

Tony dives forward. “Camera ten. Go.”

He sounds like he’s just run the Boston Marathon and Steve sympathizes—this is the only link to their son. To lose it would be to lose both lungs.

Sam fumbles for his phone and another box fills the screen. Still no change. Peter walks through eight am crowds, occasionally stopping to pet a dog.

Steve hiccups at the sight.

“Not your fault,” Bruce murmurs again.

They proceed this way down half a block, Sam following the boy’s progress by scrolling through various traffic cameras.

The air is supercharged, as if Thor has just blasted the building, minus the smell of ozone. All of them are completely silent. It still feels like they’re inside a battery.

And then…and then…

None of them notice it at first. Peter stops next to yet another person. No dog this time. He’s holding a map instead. It’s hard to see him, as the stranger remains out of frame.

They’re already trying to shift to the next camera—

“Wait!” Tony’s voice isn’t loud but they all stiffen. “Did Peter just…just _get into a car_? With a stranger?”

“He can’t have.” Bruce shifts to a kneel. “He knows better.”

Clint makes a strangled sound, panicked and furious all at once.

Nat sees it a split second after him. “Replay that.”

At first, again, it looks normal. Well, as normal as it can be when Peter voluntarily slips into a cab next to a man whose arms they can see and not much else. His legs are moving and everything.

“Watch the tourist’s hand,” says Nat. Sam plays it a third time.

This time it’s a huge red flag. The footage doesn’t allow them to make out dosage or size. It’s still enough to see a needle tip jab gently but deeply into Peter’s palm.

_Peter isn’t walking. He’s flailing. Trying to get away._

Steve has seen unfathomable cruelty in his life. Soldiers beaten, molested, and their families threatened. Even this is not the worst, categorically.

But watching that stranger cradle Peter’s shoulder, a child, close to his chest, sends a bolt of vulcanized fire straight through Steve’s body, from the crown of his head to his heels.

Such intimacy used to cause such distress. The stranger is even speaking ‘soothingly’ in Peter’s ear. Comfort weaponized. A wicked imitation of what Steve did that very morning.

“Need a trash can?” Nat’s quiet voice asks. She doesn’t look away from the screen but her hand flutters over Steve’s chest. “You okay?”

Steve wonders how she can tell bile is rising in his throat, actual, hot fluid, but one look at her green face and Steve understands she’s experiencing it too. He swallows it down.

“Friday?”

Tony’s voice is rock hard now, too strident for the uneasy hush. His eyes are tongues of fire.

“_Already on it, Boss. This cab delivered the tourist and Peter straight to JFK airport. No stopping along the way_. _Peter’s phone is gone._”

Sam does a pace to the window and back. “Facial recognition?”

“_I’m working on it. But you’ll notice the man was clever to keep his face averted, collar up high. I only have ten percent of his features to work with_. _The cab’s camera had been disabled._”

“The airport.” It’s the first time Clint has spoken. Everyone’s eyes whip to him. “Did any cameras catch him there?”

A pause. A _long_ pause. It’s not a glitch—it’s deliberate.

Tony’s hands wave. “Friday?”

“_Cameras failed to catch the kidnapper in New York, in fact the footage was deleted…but they did catch him at his destination. He is disembarking as we speak_.”

Bruce stands. “Which is where?”

“_Romania_.”

“Great!” Tony slips on his suit bracelets. “Let’s go maim this bastard. Who is he?”

“…_I do not think I should reveal his identity in present company_.”

Their eyes meet each other, all six of them in a wild conversation without words. They’re baffled, their minds racing through questions. It’s chaotic and a touch hysterical.

Natasha stills. Her face, however, would put a glacier to shame. She closes her eyes briefly. Steve flounders.

Suddenly, he understands the expression.

_She knows something we don’t. _

“Just say it, Friday.” Natasha takes a big breath in and sighs it out. “Better if we’re here to intervene.”

Even Clint looks lost, hissing a question to Natasha in Russian. She shakes her head.

Then her hand finds Steve’s. Her grip is fierce, steady. But her lips twitch. On a more emotional person, one might almost say they’re trembling.

It hits Steve in a rush. All in one gulp, forcing down bad medicine. He shoots to his feet. Natasha, expecting it, rises with him.

“No.” He lifts his eyes to the ceiling as if Friday is a real entity he can intimidate. “_No_. You’re wrong.”

“_I am sorry, Captain_.”

“Steve.” Nat winds her arm around Steve’s shoulders from the front, reminding Steve of one of the belts on Erskine’s table. Always keeping him down. Always restraining. Always reshaping him into something he doesn’t recognize. “We can’t—”

“You _have_ to be wrong!”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “Someone wanna tell me what’s going on?”

* * *

_(“Why are we doing this at midnight?”_

_Clint looks down at Peter, seated next to him, fondly. “You’re the one who wanted to keep it a secret from the others. They’re inside for games night. No better time to sneak a lesson.”_

_Peter eyes the water, dubious. He keeps his legs firmly tucked, unlike Clint’s, which dangle over the yacht lip and in the dark. “What if there are sharks?”_

_“There aren’t sharks, Peter. And even if there are, Tony has an underwater radar system set up to detect animal signatures. So we’ll get an alarm before that happens. Now stop stalling.”_

_They’re both donned in black wet suits to their knees. The fabric goes all the way down Peter’s wrists, thankfully. _

_Peter unfurls one leg and dips it in experimentally. It’s heated from the day’s sun even now, hours after dusk. He’s so surprised to feel warm water that he relaxes all the way, submerged from the knees down. _

_“Are you going to teach me to doggy paddle?”_

_“No-ope.” Clint draws out the word. It’s a petulant, very Clint-like inflection. _

_But when he turns to Peter, his face suddenly switches to something soft. “I’m not teaching you any strokes until we do something super important first, okay?”_

_Peter squirms under the intense gaze. “Okay…”_

_Clint eyes his boy for a minute longer. It’s fond, tender in a super heated way, like Peter is unthawing after being stuck in a freezer all day. _

_Then Peter feels a hand slip under his back, swooping him around and gravity pulling him down, his head notched in the crook of Clint’s left elbow. Clint sets him gently on the surface of the water._

_Even though Peter is on his back, he still feels like he’s going to drown. He goes cement stiff, tugging at Clint’s arms, legs kicking._

_“Clint!”_

_“Ssshh. Relax, Pete. I’ve got you.” Clint’s voice is calm like the surface of the water, not joining in Peter’s wild tone. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you sink.”_

_Peter’s gurgling panic quiets. His chest heaves, going in and out of the hand’s length depth Clint has him at._

_As his muscles unwind, Clint leans forward to swish Peter back and forth in the water. With his head supported slightly above his body, the salt water only wets his hair halfway. The rhythm lulls him. _

_Peter’s lashes flutter, the shock leaving him for curiosity. His eyes fixate on Clint’s face. _

_He lets go, Clint’s arms like iron beams keeping him afloat. Peter becomes putty. Even his toes ripple, loose. Clint must feel the change because he smiles and it crinkles all the way to his eyes. _

_“There we go, champ.”_

_Peter still keeps one hand balled loosely in Clint’s sleeve, the right one twining over his belly and around his back. He hiccups on a breath. _

_“Nice and easy,” Clint soothes. He stops rocking, just thumbing through the wet curls at Peter’s ear. “Look up, Pete.”_

_Earlier in the day, Clint had insisted they boat at least ten miles off the nearest coast. It’s isolated, the middle of nowhere. _

_Peter looks up and forgets to breathe. _

_It’s a cloudless night; even the moon is thin:_

_The perfect conditions for millions, billions of stars to crowd each other in the velvety night sky. It’s like the icing sugar explosion that time May tried to bake a cake. It seems impossible for there to be so many. _

_Peter wants to stretch out his arm and snatch one. Place it in a jar by his bedside. _

_“They’re so…bright!”_

_“That view is all ours.”_

_Peter grins too, faint. “Thanks for showing me this.”_

_Clint hums. “First rule whenever I teach my kids to swim, Peter, especially you: you’ve got to trust me. I’ll never teach you something that will hurt you. _

_“If I tell you to let go while we’re in the water and let me do the work, it should feel like right now. Go rag doll on me. No questions asked. No thrashing. Make sense?”_

_Peter gazes up into Clint’s face. He wonders what Ben would think if he could see that he’s been joined by nearly seven other men in Peter’s heart._

_“Pete?”_

_“Sorry. ‘S just nice.”_

_“What is?”_

_“Knowing you won’t let me drop.”_

_Clint’s stiff jawline melts. He resumes swaying Peter back and forth in the open ocean…back and forth…_

_“I’ll _always_ catch you, Peter.”)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems like a cosmic imbalance. Like the sun can’t possibly be rising if these two are seriously ready to kill each other. 
> 
> And they are. That’s what astounds Peter: 
> 
> Steve isn’t bluffing or being cautious. His finger really is on the trigger. So is Bucky’s. They’re not pointing at each other’s knees—these are head shots.

Walls again.

Peter is in exactly the same position as before, on his right side, back to the wall. This one is cold. Bone cold. It’s also faintly damp, like it’s been raining.

It’s a huge, empty space with harsh fluorescent lights. Peter has to open and close his eyes to adjust.

Despite the warehouse interior, Peter doesn’t feel cold, thanks to canvas tarps underneath and a brown jacket over top of him, smelling like motor grease and cologne. The manacle lays several feet away, soldered off his arms, apparently.

There is the distant sound of street traffic and plastic flaps flutter over the doorway, so Peter assumes they’re high up. He lets out a sigh of contentment—his sense is finally quiet.

The pain hits two seconds later.

It surges up so fast, along his spine and down his arms and behind his forehead, that Peter’s breath leaves him in a cry. Everything _burns_. He’s had worse pain before but never so much of it at one time.

The man from the apartment seems to materialize before Peter. Or, more likely he’s missed time somewhere.

The man kneels, hair a dark shadow around his pinched brows.

“Slow down, punk,” he says. “I just finished doing those stitches myself. You better not pop any.” Despite the jabbing tone, the man wears a frown of concern.

Peter pants. Colours whirl in his vision. It registers—kidnapped. _The tourist kidnapped me_. He whimpers, low. Desperate sounding.

The man’s eyes widen in worry, sympathy, and something else, a kind of manic nostalgia. He darts closer and slides his left hand gingerly under Peter’s shoulders. Peter gratefully lets his neck flop to the man’s shoulder, too worn to hold it up.

It’s an alarming, intimate display of trust. So Peter is stunned speechless when the man shushes his whimpers softly and gives a tiny rock. He’s suspiciously good at this.

Peter, startled, wants to say something clever, a witty pun to diffuse his surprise.

“I hate getting shot,” is all he manages around a wheeze.

“You…” The man’s eyes blow even wider. He halts. “You’ve been shot before? What are you, nineteen? How have you been shot before?”

“‘M s-sixteen.” Peter reddens.

The man mutters a choice word and runs his free hand down his face. “When you said school, I thought you meant university. Crap, you’re in high school! Kid, you’re too young for all this.”

_You have no idea._

“Thanks for the jacket,” says Peter.

“How do you know this is even my jacket?”

“Smells like you, sir.”

“Does it now? Are you telling me I smell bad?” The man smiles for the first time, a real one where his brown eyes morph from steely to something warm, so affectionate, in fact, that Peter smiles too.

The man’s amusement bubbles up into a hum. “And none of this ‘sir’ business. We both just got shot. We’re on better terms than that.”

“You got shot too?” Peter strains to lever himself up and look for injuries.

The man avoids his question, just like Peter avoided his. Instead he presses gently on Peter’s chest to keep him down. “You thirsty? Here.”

Peter wants to argue but he is thirsty. He knows this feeling: blood loss. Not necessarily a lot, but somewhere he can’t afford to lose it.

The man brings a water bottle to his lips first, to show it’s not poisoned, then Peter’s lips, lifting his bicep higher so it takes Peter with it. He winces when it pulls on an angry throb around his tailbone.

“Sorry,” the man murmurs, sounding it. “I don’t have any pain meds or I’d give ‘em to you in a heartbeat.”

After setting the water bottle down on the floor, when Peter is panting again from the pain, the man rolls Peter onto his right side.

“Do I have permission to lift your shirt? Check to see if the stitches are bleeding?”

Peter finds this question odd, since the man obviously lifted his shirt before to dress the wound. The man’s eyes cloud, reading this thought.

“That was an emergency procedure kind of thing, kid. You’re conscious now. I’m not touching any of your clothing without your permission.”

Tears suddenly well up in Peter’s eyes. It’s such a Steve thing to say, to do, and it spears him with homesickness.

The man inhales sharply. “I’m…geeze, you must be terrified of me. Here. I’m so sorry—”

He moves to set Peter back down but the boy grabs at the front of his shirt, cursing how weak he is right now, how loose his grip is. The man freezes.

“Stay,” Peter whispers. “It’s okay. I…I don’t know you but you haven’t hurt me. You saved my life.”

The man is full of tension, the kind that can’t just be from a strange man holding a teen he doesn’t know. This is a haunting behind his eyes.

After that, his hands are mechanical, face carefully neutral. He’s quiet while he checks the bandages around Peter’s forearms, where the cuffs bit into his skin, the dozen scrapes along his scalp, and whatever wound is on his spine.

“You’re lucky,” the man murmurs. “Bullet grazed you. Didn’t go long but it’s deep. Had to use some industrial furniture thread to suture it. No infection, so that’s good news.”

Peter thumps his head on the man’s chest, eyes fluttering. The shirt under his face is a jersey-fleece combo and uber comfy. “I smell alcohol, like liquor alcohol. Is that what you used to sanitize my…? Sir?”

The man has gone very still. Peter opens his eyes and looks up. Above him, the man’s eyes froth and roil. They are an angry sea but Peter isn’t afraid. This turmoil is directed inward, he sees at once.

It takes Peter a second, but he gets it.

“Oh.” Peter starts to remove his head from the tight cuddle. “Sorry. Nat says I need to work on my boundaries—”

“No. It…it’s…” The man can’t seem to finish this thought but he brings around his big right hand to cup Peter’s head and guide it back to his chest. Peter hears a heartbeat under his ear. Galloping. Wild. His left hand hesitates, then pets through Peter’s hair. “I haven’t…long time since…”

He trails off and Peter’s heart pounds too.

The man bends over Peter, squeezing him close to his chest. He props his chin on Peter’s hair. “You’re a good kid, Peter. Too good.”

Peter closes his eyes, still burning with thoughts of home. Both parties are completely silent, pressed together in their fear. Peter can smell it on both of them.

Peter doesn’t realize he’s breathing hard until the man moves his hand from Peter’s head to his chest. It’s a weight, a passenger to Peter’s chest pumping up and down. “Deep breaths, bud. That’s it. We’re okay.”

But they aren’t. Peter hears it in the man’s voice and sees it in how his eyes dart over his shoulder every few minutes.

“We can’t stay here,” the man says, more to himself. “But it’s too dangerous to venture out.”

Peter hears sirens, much more than before. “Did you blow something up? With a grenade?”

The man colours, almost a blush. “Just a small fountain. Nobody got hurt except the people after us.”

“Was it Hydra after all?”

The man’s lips tighten. “I wish.”

This frightens Peter even more than the whole kidnapped and in pain thing and his breath catches.

For a split second, he almost wishes he was still drugged, protected by that haze. Everything is too sharp now. The scrape of the man’s backpack as he slings it once more over his shoulder, the sirens below, footsteps on the stairs…

Peter rattles out another strained breath of alarm. His hand clenches in the man’s shirt.

The man hears it too but he seems less surprised. “I was going to leave you here or drop you off at a hospital. Now that seems like a death sentence.”

His eyes flip straight down into Peter’s. “I’m not letting anything happen to you. But you have to trust me and do what I tell you.”

There’s no question at the end but Peter nods in response to the man’s intensity.

“I’m going to scout for a viable escape route. I’ve still got a full clip. I’ll be back before you know it.”

The man sets Peter gently back down. Peter tries to roll onto his back but the man’s hand firmly holds him on his side. “Don’t lay on the stitches, little man.”

“Oh.” Peter doesn’t want the man to go yet he understands that if they are to leave here alive, they need a plan. “Do you have a phone? I can call my parents. They’d help for sure.”

The man grins. It doesn’t look very happy, though. “I don’t have a cellphone. Too easy to track.”

The overhead, fluorescent lights suddenly flicker to life. The murky warehouse interior is thrown into stark relief.

So is the man’s face.

Peter props himself on one elbow. It is only now, clear headed, that something clicks.

“I know you.”

The man ignores Peter, gathering up medical supplies into his pockets and hiding bloody rags.

Peter’s jaw hits the proverbial floor. He knows he’s gaping but he can’t seem to narrow his wide eyes. It can’t be. The man is supposed to be dead.

His voice comes out faint. “You…your picture…”

The hair is too long now, the stubble not quite right for the military portrait.

But those _eyes_.

“Steve keeps your photo in his wallet.”

The man halts. His back is to Peter, eyes on the hall outside the plastic flaps. Peter still knows he’s dealt a blow.

If possible, Peter’s voice drops even further. “_Sergeant Barnes_?”

“Nobody calls me that,” Barnes growls, though he seems more flustered than angry.

Peter swallows, debating his next words. “Steve, when he’s really sleepy and talkative, calls you Bucky.”

The man whips around. His eyes ignite, lips rock hard. Peter shrinks back. He has to have overstepped about a thousand personal lines by now.

But when Barnes walks over to Peter, looking down at him, those brows finally smooth. He doesn’t look so strained. “How…how do you know my name?”

It could have been the start of a Hallmark moment. The end of a heartfelt movie, perhaps. Peter and a long lost American soldier, bonding over blood on their clothes and how far they are from where they belong.

What happens instead is something huge and metal slamming into Bucky’s knees.

He collapses faster than Peter thinks possible.

Peter gasps, crawling over to him using his arms. His legs won’t respond to any commands, dead weight. He can barely feel them. It’s the first time he’s noticed this but it doesn’t distress him so much as Bucky on the floor.

He looks for the object that took Bucky down but, curiously, doesn’t see it.

The footsteps are louder now, outside the door.

Bucky is only dazed for a minute before he pounces back up. He stands over Peter, who is still on his stomach. Literally stands over him, feet planted just in front of Peter’s head. Peter feels safer than a bank vault.

It doesn’t stop him from paling when a dark shadow creeps past the door.

Bucky reaches behind his belt for a gun. He loads it, purposely loud.

“I know you’re there!” Bucky shouts. “You come no closer, understand?”

“I just want to talk,” says a muted voice.

Bucky shakes his head, even though their attacker can’t see him. “Not with him here. Not with a possible civilian casualty. You leave him in peace and I’ll go with you.”

Peter wonders why Bucky is pointing at him, if he isn’t visible from his painful stretch on the floor. Even the lights are winking out, throwing the room back into a cave like dim.

“I don’t want to fight you,” says the voice. “But he’s the reason I’m here.”

Bucky goes statue stiff, growling. Peter waits for him to start shooting.

Instead, he does a very strange thing:

He takes the glove off of his left hand. Peter’s assumed it’s a prosthetic of some kind that he’s embarrassed about or badly burned.

Nope. It’s made of metal.

It glints and shines even in the crap lighting. Chinks whir when Bucky clenches his hand into a fist. Peter sees at once that it needs maintenance. Badly.

His opponent must know about this metal arm because in the next second something comes whistling into the room.

“Watch out!” Peter cries.

Bucky doesn’t even blink. He just raises his left hand and _catches it_. The impact rocks him back on his heels but he holds his ground.

‘It,’ apparently being—

“Steve!” Peter sees the shield in Bucky’s hand and tries to lever himself up. No luck. “Steve, don’t hurt him! See, it’s Bucky!”

“Peter? Are you okay?”

Bucky looks down at Peter in wonder. “You really do know Steve.”

“He’s my, uh…it’s a long story,” Peter pants, more to ignore Steve’s question.

Peter figures this will put an end to all the confusion. Steve obviously thought Bucky was some other villain. Bucky obviously thought Steve was a Hydra operative.

Peter’s relieved grin falls when Steve steps into the room, still pointing a rifle at Bucky. Bucky’s face is hard, still pointing a gun at _Steve_.

It seems like a cosmic imbalance. Like the sun can’t possibly be rising if these two are seriously ready to kill each other.

And they are. That’s what astounds Peter:

Steve isn’t bluffing or being cautious. His finger really is on the trigger. So is Bucky’s. They’re not pointing at each other’s knees—these are head shots.

“Put it down,” Steve bites out.

Bucky snorts. “You first.”

Steve’s eyes flit every so often to Peter and the bloody rags Bucky didn’t quite manage to hide.

Oh. Peter blinks. _Oh!_

“Steve.” And the man’s eyes dart to Peter again. They’re hard yet aching, wide. “Bucky didn’t hurt me. He didn’t cause all of…this.” Peter gestures to himself as best he can.

That relaxes Steve’s stance a hair. The threat of violence in the air, however, is enough to choke.

Bucky’s teeth grind, audible to Peter even six feet lower on the floor. “Did you send them after us?”

“What?” Steve frowns. “Who?”

“Was it to find me?” Bucky pushes, sweat beading on his hairline. “Did you really get so desperate that you hired _them_ to track me down?”

“I have been desperate to find you,” Steve confesses. It would be a touching thing if he wasn’t gripping the automatic hard enough to bruise.

Bucky’s eyes darken. “They hurt a kid.”

Steve recoils like he’s been sucker punched. “I would never—I’m here because the UN thinks _you_…”

He doesn’t finish this thought but it hits Peter at once.

“I’m here as a peace offering,” says Steve. “A scout to find you. Or…whatever version of you is here right now.”

Bucky scoffs.

“I’m nicer than a ten-man black ops team with poisoned bullets and EMP nodes for your arm,” Steve points out. “Let me near him, Buck. _Please_.”

For some reason—Peter will blame his innocence later on blood loss—it doesn’t register to Peter why they are at a stalemate. He thinks it’s some decades old misunderstanding.

Not over access to _him_.

Peter is so surprised that he misses the silent conversation the two men have with their eyes and the deal struck at Steve’s nod.

Bucky keeps his automatic trained on Steve while the man slings his own behind his back. He runs to Peter, going down on one knee and sliding two fingers under Peter’s jaw in unison.

“Steve!” Peter reaches upwards. He can’t believe the man is here, that this nightmare is over.

“I’m sorry.” The words tumble from Steve’s lips in a messy spill. He’s pale. His guilt is so strong it cloys in the air. He says it again and again for good measure. “I’m sorry—I’m _so _sorry. I should never have let you walk the rest of the way. My fault—I’m sorry—”

Steve is still mumbling, tapering off into slightly hysterical nonsense, when he meets Peter halfway and pulls the boy up.

His arms wind around Peter’s back. He’s careful to avoid the wad of bandages above his tailbone but when Steve is sure he has Peter nestled in just the right grip, he squeezes _hard_.

Peter inhales, laughing and stunned and crying all at once. Both arms have long since found their place around Steve’s neck. He buries his wet face in Steve’s throat.

Steve feels that and plops down right where he is. He crosses his legs and settles Peter inside the hollow of them, peppering kisses in his son’s hair.

“Baby boy…baby boy…”

They sit like that for a good two minutes, just needing to be reassured.

The realization physically jolts Peter, but it strikes him immediately and without argument that this embrace is more familiar than that of his own mother. That he’s known Steve and the safe border of these arms that mean _home_ longer than anyone besides May.

“Are you hurt anywhere else? Yeah? Don’t play brave. We just broke flight records to get here. Let me see, Pete.” Steve makes up for Peter’s happy silence with endless chatter. It’s very Tony-like, and Peter would tease him mercilessly if it weren’t for the fact Steve is shaking harder than a wet kitten. “What happened to your arms?”

“Manacles,” Bucky says. “One big one, really, strapped over his hands and forearms.”

Something else occurs to Peter for the first time. “I couldn’t break them.”

At Peter’s voice, Steve’s trembles slow down. “You think they knew…” He glances quickly at Bucky. “You think your kidnapper knew about your…strength?”

“Yes.” Peter nods against the hand Steve has cupped around his face. “They had to. Even the drugs didn’t wear off during what must have been a long flight to get here.”

Steve frowns. “Tailored for your metabolism.”

Bucky lowers the gun, face overrun with curiosity. “Why do I feel like the one in the dark here? What’s going on?”

“Join the club,” says Peter. He holds out a hand and Bucky kneels down to take it. “Thanks for stitching me up.”

Steve goes very still underneath Peter. It’s odd, and Peter is troubled that he can’t read the expression on his face.

Bucky’s eyes go soft. “Any time, kid. I’ve had lots of practice.”

At first Peter thinks this is a dark euphemism, but then Bucky’s eyes slide to Steve.

And then he _winks_. At _Steve_.

The tension in the air hasn’t passed, not by a long shot. However, it downgrades. Like Steve and Bucky are just playing a role assigned to them, doing their jobs. It’s not as personal. 

Peter scrambles to remember his class field trip to the Smithsonian two years ago. He’s sure the significance of this reunion is a lot bigger than he can grasp.

“Thank you,” Steve says to Bucky, low and solemn. “For protecting Peter. At first I thought you…but you’re in your right mind.”

Bucky’s eyes pinch at the edges. “Can’t blame you. That’s why they sent you, huh? To snap me out of it?”

Steve doesn’t seem as flippant about this as Bucky. His arms tighten around Peter. “No. I came as your friend.” He reddens a bit. “And because I can handle you. Physically.”

Bucky nods sagely. “Evenly matched.”

His eyes spark. Steve rolls his eyes at some inside joke.

“He’s also here to arrest you.”

Everyone’s eyes whip to the door. Tony, in nothing but dress pants and a collared shirt, hands in his pockets, only has eyes for Steve. Though his gaze does flick briefly to Peter.

“I’m here,” he says, “because I knew Steve wouldn’t hold up his end of our bargain.”

Steve’s eyes settle into a bone-deep glare. Tony doesn’t look quite so hostile but his jaw twitches, false control. Bucky shifts his weight to the balls of his feet, one arm out as if to protect the bundle of Steve-and-Peter.

“Don’t even think about trying to escape,” says Tony, still in that dead stare off with Steve. “We have the building surrounded. Caught your little fireworks fountain display. Nice touch, but a huge giveaway for how to find you.”

“I’m not leaving him now,” says Bucky.

It’s unclear whether this phrase is extended to Peter or Steve. Either way, Steve finds Bucky’s free hand and squeezes that hard too.

Peter looks between them all and feels dizzier than he did on the roof.

* * *

(_“Big strokes. That’s it.”_

_“Water’s in my mouth! I’m going to drown, Clint!”_

_“No, you’re not. Stop tensing up. Let the water work on your behalf. There you go. Feel the current?”_

_“No.”_

_“Keep pushing, champ, and you will.”_)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It doesn’t make sense,” Tony grudgingly agrees. “Not for someone as well trained as Barnes.”
> 
> Everett’s eyes go wide. “If Barnes is being framed…if he didn’t snatch Peter in New York…then who did?”

“You were planning to let him go!”

“Even if he did kidnap Peter, he was protecting him when I found him.”

“That doesn’t excuse what he did!” Tony throws his hands up, barely missing an IV bag. “You promised to let the proper authorities take care of this.”

“You’re worried about our agreement? _Now_?” Steve lifts one unimpressed brow.

“No—I’m worried that you let your personal feelings override Peter’s safety!”

“You don’t get to play that card. I put Peter first. I was ready to shoot Bucky cold if it meant—”

“Excuse me, gentlemen?” The EMT leans between Steve and Tony, seated on either side of the cramped ambulance, to get their attention. “I’m assuming we are stopping at the hospital to drop our patient off before…”

“Yes,” says Tony.

“No!” Peter pounds one fist on the gurney under his side. For the first time, Steve and Tony both look at Peter. He’s pale, clammy. But his face is thunderous. “I’m going too! I’m not leaving Bucky alone.”

He’s still haunted by the memory of black ops handcuffing Bucky on the warehouse floor. Steve had carried Peter down six flights of stairs, not raising a finger to fight.

It was the first time Peter ever hated that contract.

“Peter,” Steve sighs. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“And you need to be re-stitched,” says Tony.

It’s comically, really, the way they suddenly work together where Peter’s health is concerned. They all sway around a bend in traffic.

“Actually.” The EMT raises one gloved hand tentatively. “Whoever sewed the stitches knew what they were doing. They’re flawless.”

Peter smirks, like he’s made a relevant point.

“It’s just dehydration and blood loss that present an immediate danger,” says the EMT, still chattering while the ambulance shudders to a stop. “Though I’d love to give him a full MRI.”

“Fine.” Tony’s mouth hardens into a painful-looking line. “But I’m wheeling him. Bruce can check him out anyway. He’s on the way with the good drugs.”

‘Good drugs’ meaning painkillers specially designed for Peter and Steve’s metabolic rate, which they can’t say in front of this Slavic EMT.

The next few minutes are a nauseated blur for Peter. Steve, now shucked down to combat pants and his leather jacket, lifts Peter from the back of the ambulance and onto a wheelchair. He disappears for a hot second, long enough for Peter to worry.

Tony wheels Peter beyond the American embassy lobby and into an elevator. UN officials scramble around them.

“Steve’s on his way,” Tony says quietly. He’s sending a rapid text message. The icon at the top is a bad clip art of Cupid. Clint, then. “He’s…overseeing transport.”

Peter gets a glimpse of ‘transport’ when the elevator doors open on level five.

The first sensation, impossible to ignore, is that there are _so many people_. Peter is amazed this many law enforcement agencies responded to a simple kidnapping.

He doesn’t know whether to feel touched or anxious. Somehow he knows the severity of the situation has little to do with him.

It’s a control room of some kind, agents chattering to each other and into headsets. This must be a big deal because it’s overcrowded for the thirty or so people in a flurry.

A glass boardroom sits at the back. It has to be sound proof as Steve is already inside yelling at a short, blond man in a business suit and even Peter can’t hear it.

The second thing to demand his attention is the fact that all the monitors are showing the exact same thing from different angles: Bucky, in some kind of Plexiglas pod. The containment unit is driven into a sterile white room and parked there. Bucky’s face is hard to read but he looks resigned.

Peter’s worry skyrockets.

He feels himself draining, going into a hazy kind of shock. He’s been kidnapped and rescued all within the span of, what, eighteen hours? He hasn’t eaten in almost twenty four.

Nothing feels out of place but it’s not quite real enough. A bad connection in a dream.

“—ter? Peter, are you with us? Get back. Give him some room.”

Then there are warm hands on his cheeks. Someone is sobbing softly and pretending they’re not, trying to hide the sound.

When Peter blinks, long and slow, it’s not the reunion he expects. Only three of his parents are present. He feels cut in half too.

Tony must have wheeled him into the boardroom without him noticing. Steve is at the table, watching a monitor in the ceiling corner and continuing his now hushed argument with the blond man. Tony hovers in the background with his arms crossed.

And the hands on his face belong to…

“Natasha?”

Her sharp eyes lose their bite. “Hello, solnyshko.”

Her brows dip and then smooth. Between Steve and Tony, her reaction is the most poised.

Oh sure, compared to Tony’s stoic demeanor Natasha’s face shows more emotion—concern, ire at what’s been done to him, softness, memories—but even with Tony’s blank face everyone feels the emotion bubbling off him in waves.

Natasha’s reaction is genuine but still the calmest.

“Hey,” she says again. Her voice is a croon. “You okay?”

Peter knows what she’s really asking. He makes a back and forth motion with his head, not really a nod or a shake. Natasha’s hands follow him.

She glances up from her crouch at Tony. “You sent him out?”

Tony nods. “He needed a minute.”

Natasha settles on her knees in front of Peter’s wheelchair. She lets go of Peter’s face. A blue blanket is tucked around his dirty frame. Not a shock blanket, Peter feels—a heated blanket, like the one they wrap hypothermia patients in.

“Everything’s okay now,” says Natasha. “You’re such a brave kid, Peter. You’re okay. We’ve got you. Your job right now is to relax and let us handle things, okay?”

Peter nods.

She digs through a kit next to the table and snaps on a pair of blue latex gloves.

Tony’s eyes flash with a brief moment of concern. “Shouldn’t we wait for…do you know what you’re doing?”

Natasha lifts one thin eyebrow. “I once had to perform emergency surgery on a man with hydrocephalus by cutting open his cranium to insert a Jackson-Pratt drain. While hiding in the woods.”

Tony shifts to hide how utterly impressed he looks. “Okay, yes, fine. You know your way around needles. Go ahead, Patrick Dempsey.”

Natasha snorts. She swabs the inside of Peter’s elbow with alcohol swabs.

“Nat?”

“Yes?”

Peter swallows, too loud in the tense quiet. “Did the man live? The one with the hydro…”

Natasha’s concentrated face goes lax. “He sure did, Peter. He was unconscious for our escape from Jordan but he made a full recovery.”

Peter finally lets go of some of his tension and smiles too. Natasha looks pleased by this, leaning forward to kiss the skin above his eyebrow.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” she whispers into his hair.

For the second time that day, Peter is wrapped up in a familiar embrace. This time he loops his arms around Nat to comfort _her_. He senses she needs it so he takes the initiative.

When she pulls back, her eyes are even calmer.

She twists an IV tube into the needle and gently pinches it into Peter’s arm. She attaches the other end to a saline bag with expert ease. Peter starts when he feels how warm the liquid is.

She murmurs. “That’s it. This will replenish some of the fluids you’ve lost. This one is your special morphine cocktail. Hold nice and still for me.”

Nat swabs his other elbow and injects Bruce’s homemade formula. Peter feels the effects at once, the aches and pains fading to a dull buzz in the background. He’s also pleased with some of the regained sensation in his legs.

“These will heal up nicely,” Nat says when she examines the skin underneath his forearm bandages. “Your healing factor is already taking care of it.”

Natasha lets Peter catch his breath, adjust to his surroundings. She wipes a warm cloth down his face. It comes away bloody and black with grime.

“You want to change now or later?”

“Now,” Peter decides. He wants to burn these bloody clothes in an angry pyre. “Please.”

They came prepared, Peter sees when Natasha opens a second backpack. This one is stuffed full of the team’s clothes, including two changes for Peter. She removes the heated blanket and locks his wheelchair.

“I’m going to tip you forward, okay? Don’t fight. Let me do the work.”

Natasha’s hand rests below Peter’s shoulder blades and pulls him towards her. Peter feels outside of his own body, letting his chest dangle over Natasha’s right shoulder. A halfway fireman’s carry.

She gently cuts away his T-shirt, juggling him in her free arm.

Bruce stands at the door with red eyes, his glasses foggy in one hand.

“Oh, Peter,” he whispers. His eyes flare.

Tony darts over to catch his elbow.

“I’m good,” Bruce says without looking away from Peter’s darkly bruised torso. “I’m okay now. I’m…me.”

Peter realizes _Bruce_ was the one sobbing earlier. His own breath hiccups.

This galvanizes Bruce to life. “Hey, Peter. You’re safe here. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Peter reaches his grabby hands forward, not caring that he feels—and probably looks—all of five years old.

“B-Bruce!”

“Yeah, Pete, I’m here.” Bruce kneels next to Natasha and takes Peter from her arms. He ruffles the boy’s hair and leans him against his chest.

“You came out of your angry room. Aren’t you scared?”

“I’d face anything for you, Peter.”

Natasha and Tony, silent sentinels, leave the pair like that for a few minutes. Peter clenches his fists in the fabric of Bruce’s shirt.

“Where’s Clint?” Peter asks.

Natasha huffs. “I don’t know. He disappeared soon after Barnes was arrested.”

Bruce peeks over Peter’s shoulder at the bullet wound to his spine.

He feels Bruce’s breath catch under his cheek.

“This is bad, Peter.”

Tony slaps Bruce’s arm. “Don’t tell him that!”

Natasha lets Bruce fuss over the stitches while she takes one of Peter’s wrists and guides it through the sleeve of a royal blue sweatshirt, vigilant of the bandages. The other arm she leaves out so the IV can stay in.

Peter is instantly grateful for the warmth when Nat zips it around him. It’s clean and yellow letters say ‘MIT’ on the front in collegiate lettering. One of Tony’s. He feels warmer for a whole new reason.

Natasha gives him a squeeze while Bruce stands. “I’ll be back soon, Peter. Know I love you, okay?”

Tony catches his elbow again. “Where are you going?”

“To meet an old…colleague.”

Tension snaps in the air again but Peter misses the confused frowns Tony and Natasha throw at Bruce.

“I feel funny,” Peter slurs, drawing everyone’s eyes back to him.

“That would be the morphine,” says Tony. “And probably shock.”

It’s not the morphine nagging at Peter’s thoughts, though. He rolls everything around in his head while looking up at the live feed of Bucky. The man looks sad.

Something doesn’t fit. Peter feels it, something obvious he should know. Something _they_ need to know.

“W…Woke up in Bucky’s apartment.”

“Yeah,” Tony growls. “I know. I’m ready to tear out his larynx, fair trial or not. I can’t believe he grabbed you.”

“No,” Peter insists. “The _tourist_ kidnapped me.”

Over his head, he sees Tony and Nat exchange a hurried look. The argument at the back cuts off. Steve’s thudding footsteps come closer.

Steve is breathless, like he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. He crouches down. “Say that again, Pete?”

“The tourist was short. He had glasses.” Peter scratches at a butterfly stitch on his cheek. “He didn’t look _anything_ like Bucky.”

The blond man Peter doesn’t recognize is gobsmacked. Steve shoots him a smug look.

“That can’t be,” the blond man says. “We have footage of him landing in Romania, of Barnes, I mean.”

“Am _I _in that footage?” Peter wonders. He still feels like he’s missing something.

Tony’s eyes darken, so full of hate that Peter shivers again. “You were put as checked luggage in an exotic animal box. Special cargo with a heater.”

Natasha’s face is still calm, but her nails bite into the sides of Peter’s wheelchair, leaving half moon dents.

“Everett.” Steve addresses the stranger. “You know this is wrong. You can stop this.”

The man looks torn. And tired of the same argument. “You call a traumatized teenager a reliable witness?”

Tony growls again, low.

Steve holds out a palm and Tony backs down.

Natasha’s voice doesn’t match the wild vein pulsing in her neck. It comes out cool and collected. “We’re not thinking this through logically: Barnes is on the US’s watch list. If he had flown _into_ Manhattan, we would have gotten an alert. Why fly halfway around the world for one kid? Why drag him back to Romania?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Tony grudgingly agrees. “Not for someone as well trained as Barnes.”

Everett’s eyes go wide. “If Barnes is being framed…if he didn’t snatch Peter in New York…then who did?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross is silent for a minute and this expression Bruce can’t read at all. The former general’s voice goes quiet. “You care for the boy that much?”
> 
> Bruce’s eyes sting but he wrestles it back. “Peter is everything now. My redemption. Our future.”
> 
> “And you’ll just give me what I’ve always wanted? No loopholes?”

The abandoned reservoir is riddled with black tire tracks, thin ones from years of skateboarders sliding up and down its steep sides.

Bruce is antsy at the way even his loafers echo. Sunset casts his shadow in distorted stretches.

He reminds himself that this is why he chose the reservoir in the first place—he can hear someone coming from half a mile away. The echoes work in his favour.

A bridge hangs over the far end of the reservoir. In the gathering dusk, Bruce gazes under it and his face goes from wide eyed to dark, all hard edges and the black tar of fury.

He’s glad Peter is not here. That he cannot see the ugly look on Bruce’s face.

Nippy September wind makes Bruce’s curls flare, in tandem with his eyes when they catch sight of a taller figure in the shadows. His breath escapes in a rush, white in the dark.

“When I got your call…well, I figured this was a trap.”

“I was telling the truth,” says Bruce. He forces his voice to be calm. “I’m just here for information. I know you had something to do with Peter’s kidnapping.”

Finally…_finally_ General Thaddeus Ross steps into the street lamp’s circle of light. He’s in a wool coat, like Bruce. His hair has more white than grey in it now.

However, it is the deep rutted lines around Ross’s eyes and mouth that shock Bruce the most. The general has always looked wizened and experienced. Now he just looks _old_. An elderly man staring back at Bruce.

_He was already white haired when I was a graduate student._

And it strikes Bruce afresh how far apart in age they both are.

Not to mention height.

The way Ross looms over Bruce, blocking the lamps, makes his skin crawl.

“So nice to see you again, Banner.”

Strangely, Bruce relaxes to hear the man use his last name. If he’d used his first it would be too intimate, too familiar. In a weird way, this man has known him longer than almost anyone in his life. Bruce doesn’t want any further reminders of that.

Bruce must stiffen because then Ross’s smarmy grin drops clear off his face. “Now that I am no longer accepted in the UN hearings, I am open for freelancing.”

The unspoken words swell through Bruce. His eyes are back to wide. “You were dishonourably discharged! Never thought I’d see the day.”

Ross sneers and steps closer. Bruce forces himself to stay still. He keeps his hands deep in his coat pockets and hopes he doesn’t have to use the knife. Its leather handle bites into his right palm.

“Who hired you?” Bruce asks. “I know the only reason someone knew about Peter was you. None of us would have told him and you’re the only other person with profiles on all of us.”

Ross steps back, eyes narrowed. “You really didn’t think it all the way through, did you?”

Bruce scowls. “Enlighten me.”

“My men grabbed you from the party in July. Young mister Parker was weak, not at full strength. Yet he still managed to wriggle free of our guards. It never occurred to you all that this fact might have helped me put two and two together?”

Bruce sees red. “You told a stranger—a _kidnapper_—that Peter is—”

“Of course I did. He paid a hefty price for any and all information on the brat, including enhanced sedatives to keep him under. Not that he cared. Besides, the little spider seems out of commission. Can you believe it? My client had one of the strongest mutants in his clutches and all he cared about was that Peter is your charge.”

Ross eyes Bruce like one of his lab dogs. “Not a total waste, since a sample of Parker’s blood _was_ part of my price.”

An earthquake begins in Bruce’s ears. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting his shakes ease, letting his irises fade back to brown.

He takes comfort in images of his normal, fleshly hands twisting Ross’s tie until it strangles him to death.

_He’s baiting you. Focus on why you came._

“Who kidnapped Peter?” Bruce asks, slow and biting out each syllable.

“What do I get in return?”

Though Bruce has been waiting for this very ultimatum, the question still throws him off. His left hand does not hold a knife. It is wrapped around something much scarier, thin and warm from his sweaty palm. Something that makes his pulse hammer against his collar.

He carefully pulls it out of his pocket and holds it out. Just close enough to read the orange label. Just far enough that Ross can’t snatch him and run.

For the first time in Bruce’s life, he sees surprise in Ross’s eyes.

“Is this a ploy?”

Bruce shakes his head. “It’s real.”

Ross is silent for a minute and this expression Bruce can’t read at all. The former general’s voice goes quiet. “You care for the boy that much?”

Bruce’s eyes sting but he wrestles it back. “Peter is everything now. My redemption. Our future.”

“And you’ll just give me what I’ve always wanted? No loopholes?”

Bruce’s fingers burn around the plastic. He shakes his head again, not trusting his voice. As a show of good faith, he straps the patient bracelet around his wrist and tightens until it locks.

It’s not very tight. Much gentler than the manacles Bruce has worn before.

It still manages to shoot adrenaline through his system.

“My life for his,” Bruce finally whispers. “I’ll come with you if you reveal the identity of Peter’s kidnapper to the others.”

Ross stares another moment longer. Then he shoots forward and clamps his hand around Bruce’s wrist.

Bruce would roll his eyes at the display of power if he wasn’t trying to keep his breathing level. The Other Guy is a quiet observer—for now. Rumbling but passive. Bruce smells the specific brand of sweat on himself that only comes with intense fear.

Suddenly Ross cries out. Bruce is startled by the sound and wonders what has his face contorted in so much pain.

He looks down—

There is an arrow embedded in Ross’s foot. The shaft is short, sticks out of his loafer at a shallow depth. It probably didn’t even pierce any bones or tendons, but there’s a wicked, serrated edge.

In his agony, Ross clenches even tighter on Bruce’s wrist. Bruce winces. Hard. He wonders if the joint might break. 

“Let go of my friend, please.”

A lithe figure jumps down from a hidden girder under the bridge. He lands lightly on his feet, eyes never leaving the hand on Bruce’s wrist.

Bruce wants to be peeved that Clint obviously followed him here but he’s dizzy with the surge of relief.

“I said…let _go_ of my friend, please.” Clint’s face twitches. “Mister Ross.”

Ross seems pained by this insult more than anything. He roars at Clint, a cornered animal. Clint wears his long coat but Bruce sees the graphic T-shirt and jeans underneath, showing he prepped in a hurry.

Bruce’s hand turns steadily purple.

If possible, Ross’s fingers constrict even further. Bruce clamps his teeth shut but he can’t stop a strangled cry. It’s definitely sprained now.

Clint makes a sound Bruce has heard a thousand times, usually over a com link. It’s halfway between a savage snarl and an _ugh_ sound of being fed up.

His gloved right hand comes down on Ross’s, the one attached to Bruce. 

“It’s late, Ross. We’ve had a long day. I’m tired. Bruce is tired. _Let him go_.”

He arches back so he’s almost nose-to-nose with Ross.

“It’s okay,” Bruce gasps out. “I’m willing to go with him. We made a deal.”

“Shut up, Bruce.” Clint looks sideways at him, eyes switching from fiery to tender. “Please. I’m not losing a second family member in one day.”

With Clint’s attention diverted, Ross looks mutinous. Clint keeps his eyes on Bruce while pulling out a Glock and pointing it at Ross’s throat.

Ross lets go instantly.

Bruce staggers back. His hand is a cherry bomb factory exploding all at once. He hides it behind his coat to stop Clint’s murderous eyes from looking at it.

“Here’s my new deal.” Clint squeezes the nape of Bruce’s neck with a tiny, grim smile and then turns back to Ross. “Tell us Peter’s kidnapper or I shoot you.”

Ross glances at Bruce.

“I didn’t plan this.” Bruce answers the unspoken question. “But I’d do as he says.”

An antagonistic beat of quiet passes. Another. Ross’s eyes flick to his bloody shoe and then back up. Clint must see some threat to Bruce in that glare because he steps in front of his friend.

“He contacted me a month ago, when that photo of you all in the Mediterranean got leaked.”

Clint and Bruce both wince. They still regret that security slip up.

“Said he wanted to get to Stark’s…soft spot.”

Bruce frowns. “So this is about Tony.”

“Not exactly.” Ross looks troubled for a split second, lost in a memory. Bruce wonders if this mystery man gave Ross a run for his money. “He asked about who the boy was, where he came from. Things like that. His schedule. Anything off about him he should know—hence the mutant intel. I told him what I could. I still had contacts from my time as Secretary, had access to adoption records.”

“He’s a minor,” Bruce protests. “Peter’s records are protected by federal law!”

Ross throws them a shark’s leer. “But his guardians aren’t, are they? Nothing is left to chance with you lot. Oh sure, it’s eyes only, but many in Washington were just as curious about that boy. Not that his…condition…is common knowledge.”

“Ross.” Though the softest voice Bruce has heard all night, Clint’s, when it comes out, raises hairs on Bruce’s arms. It is the type of hush before someone dies. “Who was your client?”

“He didn’t give me his name.”

Bruce huffs. “Stop lying.”

Ross gazes long at Bruce, eyes greedy. They’re bloodshot. “He had a German accent. Glasses. Not very tall. Late thirties. I’m sure you could get all this from your mutant.”

Clint’s hand tightens on the gun and Bruce thinks this is pushing it, even for Ross.

Ross’s macho anger falters. He rubs at his face. “The man wasn’t a government agent or anything. Just some civilian, really. I don’t know his motives or why he wanted Parker’s information, I swear.”

_It bothers him_, Bruce realizes. _That this mystery kidnapper came better prepared than he did with just his brains and a plan. Ross didn’t succeed in July with a full tactical team but this man did in three minutes on a busy Manhattan sidewalk_.

Clint has that stony set brow Bruce recognizes. He’s done talking.

Clint cocks the gun.

“Zemo.” Ross stares Clint dead in the eye. “The man called himself Zemo. He told me this very scenario would happen. That I should give his name freely, like he doesn’t care who knows.”

Clint’s brow quirks up—this one is surprise.

He waves the gun and Ross takes the hint, limping off into the night. It’s fully dark now. Clint and Bruce stand there for a long time, both breathing shallow.

Clint doesn’t move a millimeter. He stares after Ross long after Bruce can’t see him anymore. Clint probably still can.

Bruce is trembling and doesn’t know why. It scares him. He feels like he’s alone in a vast desert. His good hand flutters closer to his friend.

“Clint—”

“Shut up.” Clint whirls around and holsters his gun. “Just shut it. Come ‘ere.”

He stuns Bruce by yanking him into a hug. Clint’s hands are big and rough at Bruce’s back. He buries his bony chin in Bruce’s shoulder and Bruce finally stops shaking.

“How could you?” he whispers in the physicist’s ear. “Peter would have been devastated. _We _would have been devastated!”

Bruce reciprocates, wraps his shorter arms around Clint. His fingers clench in the sleek Kevlar of Clint’s coat. “I did it _for_ Peter. He deserves justice. To be safe.”

Clint squeezes him once, fast, like this thought scares him too. “Not at your expense. Not while you’re being vivisected by that bastard.”

He pushes back to look at Bruce’s wrist. The joint is swollen, bruising in real time before their eyes.

It is the plastic patient bracelet that Clint scowls at.

“I won’t let him hurt you again, Bruce.” His expression softens when he meets Bruce’s eyes. “No more going it alone.”

“…Okay.”

Clint nods, visibly relieved. “Okay.”

“Going it alone sucks.”

Bruce is in shock. He knows this about himself, clinically, but still joins along when Clint laughs. They puff big clouds of steam into the air. 

“Come on. We’ve got to warn the others.” Clint wraps an arm around Bruce’s shoulders to get him moving. He whips out a cellphone and dials Tony’s number from memory. “I’ve got a first aid kit in the car.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please, Zemo,” says Tony, following their snail’s pace with his hands out. “Let Peter go and you’ll leave in peace. We won’t shoot.”
> 
> Zemo just laughs and turns to Bucky. “Prep the helicopter.”
> 
> Tony lunges forward. “No!”

Peter must fall asleep because when he opens his eyes staff has thinned and Tony holds out a mug of chili. Natasha, Steve, and Everett are out in the control room. Peter refused a bed, claiming he didn’t want to miss anything that happened to Bucky.

_Now here I go, falling asleep! _Peter berates himself. He feels strangely like he’s abandoned his new friend.

Peter rubs his aching forehead and feels the pain go down.

Tony kneels in total silence by his side until Peter lifts his head from its scrunch. Tony helps him spoon the chili, sips at a time, and Peter feels full for the first time in ages. He washes it down with lemonade and a biscuit.

It’s heavenly.

It’s only now, when the two of them are alone, that Tony’s guard drops. Peter hears it first as a skip in Tony’s breathing. The man turns aside, setting the empty mug and plate on the table.

“Tony.”

“Yeah. I’m here. Do you need anything?”

Peter assesses himself, shaking his head.

Tony wheels over one of the office chairs and comes in really close. “This is all happening really fast, I know.”

Tony’s defenses shatter. Only his eyes remain bright, reassured by Peter’s presence. That he’s alive and breathing with no major injuries.

“I’m okay,” Peter says, trying to stop Tony’s lips from quivering.

“Speak for yourself, small fry.”

Tony’s eyes are deep pools, fervent. Anguished.

“Tony?”

Tony blurts the words so fast they’re a breath. “I don’t deserve you.”

Peter blinks. He processes that too slow. Too late to stop a quick tear from escaping Tony’s eye. He breathes out and it’s so uneven that Peter’s eyes fill too.

“Every time I close my eyes,” Tony whispers. “Every time I look at your bandages…all I can see is May’s face. She wouldn’t stand for this.”

Peter fights to keep his composure. He’s had enough dignity stripped away from him. He will not be helpless in this too.

“But…but you brought me _home_.” Peter tips his head forward so it rests on Tony’s. “She’d be proud of you all, how fast you came for me. I was gone barely a day.”

Tony says nothing. He crowds in to cup the curly head.

Peter grimaces, still weirded out by how unstable his legs feel. He hasn’t mentioned it. His parents look distressed enough and they don’t need this fear as well.

Peter leans into the side embrace. The pressure of their torsos against each other, breathing in and out, is the final cue Peter needs to know he’s safe.

Everything stills for a beautiful minute.

He watches Nat out in the control room, pointing at a monitor over a tech’s shoulder. Steve has given up his argument with Everett but keeps his eyes locked on Bucky’s feed.

Peter’s heart twists in sympathy. He imagines if it was him in here and Ned in that box or vice versa.

“Hey, Tony?”

“Mmm?”

Peter plays with Tony’s thick, silky hair. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, roll towards the screen in the corner. “What are they doing with Sergeant Barnes?”

He only notices a shift in atmosphere because Bucky has been asleep, head bowed, and now it’s steadily rising, straight and alert.

Tony sighs. “It’s a psychological evaluation, bud. Standard protocol.”

“Have they fed him yet? Is he okay?”

A low hum goes through Tony, something Peter can hear and feel. “You’re such a sweet kid, you know that? Honestly. I’ll need dentures pretty soon.”

Peter makes a frustrated sound.

“But yes,” says Tony. He steals a quick kiss on Peter’s shoulder. “They fed him some nice chili, just like you, and bound up the more serious wounds. You missed the show while you were napping.”

“Has he spoken yet?”

“…Only to ask about you, funny enough. He’s not worried about what happens to him.”

Peter hears a guarded yet respectful note in Tony’s voice. He blinks. “Oh.”

“Though he should be,” Tony adds in a mutter.

Peter’s sleepy brain catches up. “Psych evaluation? Like what they give soldiers?”

“Exactly like that. You got it. They’ll be gentle with him, okay?”

Tony cranes around to be sure he catches Peter’s eye. Peter isn’t sure why he does this, but then he sees Steve glancing in at them. Everything feels over his head.

Peter nods to both men, shy all of a sudden. “Okay.”

He wants to ask more questions, especially when a tiny therapist walks into Bucky’s containment room, but Tony’s phone rings.

“Sorry, Pete. Got to take this.” Peter watches Tony accept the call and stop mid stride for the door. “Clint? Where—what? Ross? Why does no one tell me anything?! Is Bruce okay?”

Clint must say something to shut Tony up because he’s quiet for a while.

Peter’s eyes wander back to the screen. Steve ghosts inside the room, having heard Bruce’s name. He’s wearing that concerned, furrowed brow.

Audio suddenly clicks to life on the live feed. Peter twitches at the sudden noise. He feels a wash of relief—his reaction to unexpected stimulus isn’t as strong as before. He really has come a long way since Derrick.

Steve flashes him a reassuring smile, like he’s got a paternal version of Peter’s spidey sense.

The therapist has droned on for a few minutes. Bucky seems oddly complacent, only pausing every few minutes to make eye contact with the camera. Steve nods sometimes when this happens, as if Bucky can see him.

Then Bucky utters one word.

One word that changes all their lives in an instant:

“_No_…”

Steve’s eyes switch back around, Peter sits ramrod straight in his chair, and Tony pauses in his don’t-offer-yourself-up lecture to Bruce.

“What’s happening?” Peter asks, hating how small his voice is, hating the sight and sounds of Bucky thrashing. The therapist is a vulture, circling the tank. Finally, his face comes into view. “Why is he…_Steve_!”

Steve grips Peter’s arms, gaze going from Bucky to Peter. “Pete, hey, what’s—”

“That’s him! That’s the man who drugged me in New York!”

Tony, in a rare moment of vulnerability, jolts as if shocked. “Yeah, Clint, I’m still here. Zemo you say…hey!”

Peter isn’t very balanced right now or stable on his feet but he jolts upright anyway. The IV tears out of his elbow. He shoves out the glass door and into the hallway. His steps are a jumbled mess but they are focused in one direction. He even makes it halfway up the stairwell.

_Bucky. Gotta get to him, gotta stop the tourist, gotta—_

Arms grab Peter from behind. He writhes, a manic force that steals his energy. Wiry and shaking, Peter fights and _fights_.

“Calm down, son.”

“No!” His snapped shout echoes off the cement. “He’s hurting him! He’s hurting Bucky!”

“Pete, you need to calm down. _Now_. Don’t make me repeat myself. You’re bleeding again.”

Peter digs his nails into the jacket clad arms around his chest. “Let me go!”

“Not a chance, Pete. Please.”

_Steve._

Hours of training kick in and Peter goes limp, just like Clint taught him in the water. Peter hates it and is comforted all at once.

“I’m going after Bucky—he escaped—but you will stay out of harm’s way, Peter. Do you understand me?”

Peter stares, unseeing, at the chipped mortar wall.

“Peter Benjamin Parker.” The arms shake with enough force to jar Peter and make him realize how serious this is. “Do you understand m—”

Steve never gets to hear Peter’s answer. It’s a reverse of the warehouse—a huge hunk of metal flies into Steve.

He drops like a stone, lax arms taking Peter with him. Peter screams.

There’s a barked command. “Vzyat yego, soldat. He’s our insurance to leave alive.”

Peter doesn’t understand what’s happening. He struggles to leaver himself up off the cold floor. Steve is sprawled on his side, unmoving, bleeding from a nasty head wound.

Peter begins to shake. He’s experienced too much violence in the last twenty four hours to process it all.

“Peter!” Tony flings open the stairwell door. “Romanov, get in here!”

Peter doesn’t know what has Tony’s eyes so wildly terrified.

Then a metal arm clamps around Peter’s neck and pulls him up. Peter winces, struggling for air. His screams cut off. A cold click presses to his temple.

“You let us leave,” says that familiar, now hated German accent. The man steps around Bucky’s shoulders to glare at Tony down the stairs. “Or Sergeant Barnes here will blow your child’s brains out. We don’t want that now, do we?”

Tony doesn’t dignify the man with a response, mostly because he’s too busy locking eyes with Peter. He pants as if he feels Peter’s struggle for air inside his own lungs.

Peter trembles so much that Bucky has to readjust his grip. Though the surface of his metal arm is slippery, Peter manages to find purchase. Even he is not strong enough, however, to pry the arm off. He feels the mismatched power balance at once.

Steve is strong but Bucky is almost inhuman in this fugue state.

It’s the first time Peter has been senseless with fear since this whole debacle began. Bucky and the not-tourist creep up the stairs, one step at a time. They’re near the top of the building because even Peter can see that the stairs are already about to end.

“Please, Zemo,” says Tony, following their snail’s pace with his hands out. “Let Peter go and you’ll leave in peace. We won’t shoot.”

Zemo just laughs and turns to Bucky. “Prep the helicopter.”

Tony lunges forward. “No!”

Bucky shoves open the roof access hatch and they climb out into the night. Peter kicks his legs but Bucky’s arm only tightens a fraction and Peter obeys the warning. Bucky holsters the gun for a split second and reaches in through the window of a parked helicopter. It whirls to life. Wind tears through their clothes and hair.

The gun barrel meets Peter’s head again. Death’s kiss.

It is unfathomable that these same arms protected him only hours before. Peter wonders if he ever woke up, if this is only a nightmare and he’ll jolt awake in the wheelchair downstairs.

A blinding flash lights up the dark. Peter cries out when it flies past him into Zemo. The man grunts but says nothing.

_A repulsor blast. Tony!_

Sure enough, Tony stands there with gauntlet in hand next to Natasha, who has a gun drawn and the most murderous expression he’s ever seen on her. Her lips are bloodless from snarling. It’s a look meant to inspire fear in men’s hearts—and it works. She doesn’t even appear human right now, savage and bloodthirsty, tendons in her forehead protruding past reddening skin.

Agents line up behind them on the roof.

Zemo clutches at the fried skin on his bicep but he’s still grinning. “You will lead me to the place we talked about, soldat.”

Bucky nods, chin brushing Peter’s head. “Da.”

Then Zemo goes still. This sudden eye of the storm sets Peter’s teeth on edge. “On second thought…perhaps my vengeance doesn’t need such a theatre.”

Tony tenses further and Natasha yells something in a language he doesn’t know. Peter looks around and is startled to see Zemo’s hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t even felt it.

“You love this child, Stark, yes?”

“Get your hand off him, Zemo!” Tony shouts a long curse word that makes Peter blush. “Do it or I swear I’ll kill you with my bare hands! I don’t need a suit for that!”

Zemo doesn’t seem bothered by this. “Be my guest.”

Tony lowers his hand at that. There’s the glint of bared teeth.

Zemo snaps his fingers. “Shoot the boy, soldat.”

Natasha pales and that is the moment Peter knows he’s well and truly screwed.

He swallows convulsively, patting around to find some part of the soldier that is flesh and not metal. He’s still trying to get his feet under him.

The gun cocks.

Peter whimpers. “Bucky?”

An absolutely electric moment of zipping energy surges through the air. It is pure reaction, the upwelling of simultaneous, adrenaline-fueled shock in every single body on the roof besides Peter.

Everyone goes rigid and agents hiss at each other. Tony outright gapes. It takes Peter a long time to see, but he realizes why a second later:

Bucky lowers the gun. He…he _lowers the gun_.

“Bucky?” Peter says again, licking his lips. He goes for firm, but his voice comes out small. He hates it until he realizes that perhaps it’s to his advantage. “Bucky, please. I’m scared and you’re hurting me.”

There’s an abrupt yet cautious release of pressure around Peter’s windpipe. Even Zemo looks gobsmacked.

Bucky doesn’t release Peter completely, but there’s enough room for Peter to find his feet and turn in the one-armed embrace. He looks up into Bucky’s eyes. They go from hard to conflicted, younger looking, in an instant.

“Bucky?” Peter breathes. He clenches a hand in Bucky’s shirt to keep himself upright, just like he did in the warehouse yesterday. Was that really only yesterday? “Do you know who I am?”

“Bogu, Piet…Peter?” Bucky shakes himself out of Russian and into English. He looks down at the gun in his hand with equal surprise. “You’re bleeding!”

“That’s what Steve said.”

“Steve!” Bucky’s eyes shift to the rooftop, searching. “How did we get here…?”

Natasha fires off a shot but it’s a split second too late.

Zemo lifts a syringe and jabs it into Bucky’s neck. Like Steve minutes earlier, Bucky goes limp in one massive rush. Zemo shoves his body backwards on its descent and both Bucky and Peter land inside the passenger area of the helicopter.

Bucky cushions the fall but a metal piece bolting the seat to the floor still manages to clip Peter on the forehead. The world spins. There’s a chiming echoing over everything that makes Peter think of an out-of-tune orchestra.

Peter untangles himself from Bucky’s dead weight limbs just as Zemo slides the hatch closed. He locks it—from the outside.

Peter stares, blank with terror. 

In the sudden windless environment, Peter’s curls fall, sticking to the tearful patches on his face. One catches in the fresh blood along his eyebrow. Zemo is already manipulating the controls from the pilot seat. He pulls at something near the floor and the helicopter begins to rise…rise…up, up and…

“No!” Peter shifts to his knees and pulls at the handle. It doesn’t budge. “No! Tony! Nat! _Tony_!”

Peter doesn’t care now about dignity or danger to himself. He just needs to get _away_. This cannot be happening again.

_Again._

“NO!” Peter shuffles back and wraps the bottom hem of his sweater around his fist.

_This might hurt_.

Peter swings his fist back in a haymaker punch. At the last second, he closes his eyes, just as his hand impacts the window. It probably saves his eyes from permanent blindness—

The punch works a little _too_ well. Glass rains over his face and pain explodes through his knuckles. His momentum swings him forward.

Right out the window.

Peter’s sticky hands rescue him.

He grips the outside of the helicopter as it soars over the buildings around them. His flailing legs curl, sneakers braced like his hands. He looks like he’s about to play sideways leapfrog.

Colder wind stings his cheeks, tears streaming into his hair, and numbs the now exposed skin around his bloody right hand.

Peter’s breath catches. His heart beats faster and he dares to lift one hand and hold it out. His cry comes out in a shriek. “Tony!”

It’s impossible to hear over the wind but saying it fills Peter with hope anyway. Tony pushes the suit faster, repulsors at his feet and hands too bright in the dark.

Peter has the feverish urge to just…let go. To leap. To be weightless and soar into Tony’s arms. It doesn’t matter if he lands—he just wants freedom. Even if it’s the last act he ever does, Peter wants to choose.

Peter suddenly wants it more than his own name, more than oxygen. To be in _control_ of what’s happening here—

“Mr. Parker.” Zemo has a gun casually in one hand. He blinks lazily at Peter, half his attention turned to the buildings around them and half on the broken window. Not that he seems very concerned about it. “Can we be civil here?”

Peter’s nose wads in fury.

“Would you really leave your friend?”

Before Peter can answer, Zemo flicks the safety off the gun and rests it, ever so gently, on Bucky’s forehead. Dead center.

The earth bottoms out, leaving Peter’s stomach swooping. It’s a no-brainer choice.

“Alright,” he calls back, one hand up. “I’m coming in. Don’t shoot!”

Before Peter keeps true to his word, he glances over his shoulder at Tony. The suit is within ten yards now.

_Please. _Peter doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but he tries to transmit it now. _Please, Tony. Trust me._

Peter shakes his head, waving Tony off. If possible, the eye sockets burn fiercer. Tony speeds up. There’s only one way to stump him, Peter realizes. To make him back off enough for them to get away:

Peter crawls back inside.

Zemo smiles. “Such a good boy, Peter.”

It’s probably Peter’s imagination, impossible to tell in the dark and with all the noise, but a sound like a man’s scream echoes in the night.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you’ll all be quiet for a second,” says Steve, and wants to smile at the chorused gesture of everyone’s eyes swinging to him. “You’ll be pleased to know I put a tracking device on Peter.”

Extraction teams either sucked during WWII or, because you knew the soldiers almost better than their own wives, so efficient that it put modern day black op teams to shame. No in between spectrum to speak of.

The worst extraction for the Howling Commandos was the tail end of a flush battle, when they didn’t make it to the beaches in time, getting dive bombed and hung in the pines by German troops. Steve had awoken from his own wounds to the groan of men missing their legs, the sight of bodies in the trees. Experienced colonels weeping.

Bucky had curled himself over Steve and rocked, lips pulled tight over dirty teeth. Animalistic.

When Steve opened his eyes, they’d just stared at each other for an endless minute. Life, humanity, surged back into Bucky’s eyes and Steve had stroked the hands framing his face until he felt human too.

It goes down as his worst return to consciousness, even including the ice.

Now, however… Steve reconsiders that assessment.

“You just _left him there_!”

“You stay out of this, agent. No, you know what, _get out_.”

“Excuse me?”

“_Get out_!”

“Is it my fault that—”

“And you! Selling yourself to Ross like—”

“I didn’t—”

“He was bleeding!” A wail. “Bleeding!”

“Shut up! Just _shut_—”

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re done the middle school hissy fit you need to get out of my med bay.”

“_Hey_! I did not put an arrow through Ross just for—”

Words dissolve into senseless screaming. Someone is sobbing and yelling at the same time. Voices overlap as if everyone is standing on a soap box, delivering their worst.

There is an incalculable amount of noise: guttural, incensed voices; beeping and the shrill chirping of alarms; painful sounding coughs; PA loudspeakers blaring; the screech of plastic being cut…

Steve isn’t sure he wants to open his eyes but he does it anyway.

One thing is immediately apparent—

None of his fellow teammates are really angry.

They’re petrified.

A cloud of physical _panic_ clogs the room. Like noxious gas, Steve feels it creep into his lungs too, making his breathing tight and his heart rate jump.

They’re all still wind ruffled and the clock in the corner reveals that only an hour has passed since…since…

Everything appears before his eye. The stairwell, Peter trying to hobble away, the flash of metal before everything went dark.

“Bucky!” Steve surges upright on the hospital bed.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Bruce runs to the bed, shaking all over, more ashen than a fresh blanket of snow but already slipping a stethoscope into his ears. “Mr. Mild Grade Concussion, you need to lay back. Please, Steve. The swelling has barely gone down.”

Steve does as Bruce orders while he pokes at him. Tony, Clint, and Nat, sport fire truck red faces and wild eyes while they holler blame at each other.

Tony has finally cracked. His suit vest strains as he pants, face wet with tears, one Iron Man boot still on his foot that he probably doesn’t even realize is there.

A knife quivers in the bedside table, one of Nat’s.

Everett stands to the side, one hand out and the other on his hip. His eyes are narrowed and wary, ready to intervene if this comes to blows. Sharon is paler than Bruce. She’s on a cellphone and arguing in Romanian to whoever’s on the other end.

The truth of what happened throbs in the room.

_No. God, no._

Steve’s voice comes out as a raspy mutter. It still freezes all conversation in the room.

“We lost our boy. _Again_.”

Natasha’s jaw does that slow roll, a full rotation that thins her lips. Clint hangs his head to hide a shuddery exhale.

“I couldn’t blow the helicopter out of the sky,” says Tony, oh so low and quiet. It’s a worse bomb shell than the screaming. “Not with Peter in it.”

“Why did he go back inside?” wonders Bruce. His hands still clamp around Steve’s pulse point, one of them sporting a new wrist bandage. Steve makes a note to ask about that later. “Why not jump and trust Tony to catch him?”

“He waved me off.” Tony swipes angrily at another tear. “I should’ve…”

“Yes, you should have.” Natasha’s eyes burn into Tony’s. Then she deflates a little. “No…you did the right thing, Tony. Spooking Zemo could have killed Peter.”

“What if letting him go just did?” Clint asks, and Nat stiffens like they’ve had this fight several times already. “We’re probably never going to see Peter alive and you know it. You _know_ the stats, Tash, you were there for Peru—”

Natasha whirls on her partner. “Peter is not Oleg, okay? We’re…We won’t fail him like we did before.”

Clint waves an arm out. “But we _just did_! Peter just got snatched and none of us were fast enough to stop him!”

“If you’ll all be quiet for a second,” says Steve, and wants to smile at the chorused gesture of everyone’s eyes swinging to him. “You’ll be pleased to know I put a tracking device on Peter.”

“What?” Bruce stares at him. “When?”

“In the warehouse,” Steve explains. “I wasn’t sure if Bucky would let me leave with Peter so I had a tiny chip ready in my hand for the briefest contact with him. I knew doctors would remove his clothes so I clipped it along his scalp, behind his ear. He didn’t even notice.”

That stuns them all for a beat.

Then Tony laughs, short and genuine. “One of the tracking beads I gave you for Barnes?”

Steve nods, finally grinning. “Had to improvise.”

“Finally learning from the best, I see.”

“Don’t you mean _improving_?”

Tony is already on his phone, activating the tracker. “Nice job. I’ll have telemetry for him in a few minutes.”

The team relaxes at the familiar banter, still thrumming with urgency and sick for their child…but not quite so hostile.

Everett’s eyes dart around the room. He licks his lips in the familiar nervous gesture and then nods to himself as if deeming it safe to intervene. “At least we have a name for the face now. Helmut Zemo.”

Clint side-eyes Bruce. “Though it came at too high a cost, if you ask me.”

Sharon, still on the phone, clicks a laptop on the table and the screen in the corner winks to life. Steve fiddles with his bed remote to raise the headboard. Bruce helps him after a moment of frustrated pressing.

Everyone reads the report on Zemo in silence.

Clint finally asks what they’re all thinking. “Why is there a photo of a corpse in a bathtub included in this?”

Sharon hangs up and sobers. “Meet the _real_ psychologist assigned to Barnes. We found him murdered twenty minutes ago in the hotel where Zemo was staying, posing as the doctor.”

Tony catches Steve’s eye. “So Zemo planned this from the beginning, that Barnes would be the prime suspect.”

Natasha nods and points to a piece of tech in the crime scene report. “Synthetic mask printer. Uses latex to reconstruct faces. It was found in Zemo’s home address in Germany. He wanted to be caught on tape as the Winter Soldier. He must have had the mask on his person and put it on after flying into Romania.”

“Why?”

They all look to Bruce. The man rolls up the sleeve of his lab coat to tap at the shot of Zemo on the roof footage.

When he’s quiet for a bit, Tony frowns, concerned, at his friend. The team is more than a little touchy, Steve can tell, at the fact Bruce tried to sell himself. “Why what, Bruce?”

Bruce shakes himself to the present. “Why does this random man—who blew through his measly life savings for this one operation, by the way—go through all this trouble just to get _one_ face-to-face meeting with Sergeant Barnes? What was the point?”

A roiling begins in Steve’s chest. He grieves for his friend’s pain. Is Bucky conscious yet? Is he hurt?

“I don’t know,” he says aloud. “But Zemo…activated Bucky. I want to know what means he used to do that so it doesn’t happen again.”

Tony looks to Bruce, who nods. “It’s already on my list, Steve. Priority one.”

Steve unwinds a bit.

“It is incredible, though.” Natasha wears the ghost of a smile. “Do you realize how amazing it was, that Peter broke through all of that programming and deactivated seventy years of brainwashing with one word?”

A stone cold silence falls over the room. Steve thinks about it and is amazed too.

_Peter reminds Bucky of me_. The truth hits him at once. _Taking care of Peter is as natural a role as breathing._

It’s small comfort, but Steve clings to it. That neither of them is alone in this kidnapping. Or…re-kidnapping.

“Our black ops teams lost them,” says Sharon, frustrated. “I’ve been trying to convince neighboring countries’ air space to let us use their equipment for tracking. No luck.”

“Got him.”

Everyone rushes to Tony’s phone, even Steve, dragging a heart monitor and IV stand behind him.

Bruce splutters and tries to push Steve back down on the bed but in this form it is laughably easy to—lightly—shrug the smaller man off. Bruce gives up with a huff and joins the huddle over Nat’s shoulder.

Steve doesn’t censor his surprised cry. “They haven’t even left Bucharest!”

Sharon brings the phone to her ear again. So does Everett.

The blond runs out the door. “Get me UN strike teams.”

Tony, arms held out for the rumble of armor flying through the building towards him, blinks in surprise when Steve puts a hand on his chest.

“No,” he says softly. “We can’t rush in. We promised.”

Nat laughs, a vicious sound. “To hell with that contract now.”

“Steve,” says Clint. “Don’t you think the UN will understand just this once? To get our kid back?”

Steve meets Tony’s eyes again. An intense, stinging moment of silent conversation that’s almost painful.

“I’m not doing this for the government’s sake, believe me.” Steve lowers his voice, steadying himself against the jolt of pieces slamming into Tony’s body. “But what if this is exactly what Zemo wants?”

Tony doesn’t back down but he pauses. “And what do you propose we do? Wait around?”

Steve shakes his head. “Tony, we have one of the best contractors in world history _on the inside_. He’ll protect Peter.”

He sighs, feeling the pull of his injuries. Bruce sees the waver and steadies his back.

When Steve lifts his head, his eyes burn. “I’m asking you to trust him. Please. For me.”

* * *

(_Up…SWOOP…down…_

_Peter rides the wave, boogie board under his stomach, and slices his arms through the water. He checks every so often that he’s mimicking Clint properly. _

_“That’s it, bud. Keep going.” Clint makes a strange face, like he’s trying hard not to laugh. “Peter? I think you’re forgetting something.” _

_Peter stops ‘swimming,’ glancing around at the yacht and then down at himself. “What?”_

_“Your legs, Peter. They can’t just hang there. They’re your power too. Arms are mostly for steering.”_

_Up…SWOOP…down…_

_“Got it.” Peter tries doing both at once. It’s more of a mad flail. “This is hard!”_

_Clint joins along, laughing openly now. He exaggerates his own strokes, feet pumping, churning the water into foam. Peter is spellbound by the sight of such raw power. The muscles in Clint’s legs ripple in tandem with his back. _

_“Pete?”_

_“Swimming, on it.”_

_“Here comes another wave! Careful—Pete? Peter? _Peter_!”_

_Up…Swoop…down—DOWN…_)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They roll for what feels like a lifetime, Zemo scrabbling to get both hands around Peter’s neck and Peter trying to grab the gun that has fallen to his side. It’s a vicious fight, Peter’s teeth bared, survival instincts a lit match under his feet to keep him writhing around Zemo in a tangled ball of flesh and hatred.

'I want to take shelter but I'm ready, ready to fight  
And somewhere in the middle I feel a little paralyzed  
But maybe I'm stronger than I realize.'

"Six" ~ Sleeping At Last

There’s no need for the gun now.

Peter’s stomach does flips, churning, when they land in an empty wheat field. It’s such a short flight that Peter wonders if they ran out of fuel.

Zemo tucks the gun away in his waistband. He scans the horizon before unlocking the door. Peter follows him meekly off the helicopter, no thoughts of running away at all. He’d never leave Bucky vulnerable, alone with this lunatic.

“Sergeant Barnes?” Peter turns around as the blades slow down. He bends over the soldier, still on his side and unmoving. “Bucky?”

“He won’t wake,” said Zemo, subdued now after all the drama. “Not without this.”

“Wait.” Peter starts, seeing yet another syringe in the man’s hand. “Hey! What are you—”

Zemo shoves Peter away by the scruff of his sweater. Peter is caught off guard enough that he lands in the grass and barely catches himself.

This mixture is injected into Bucky’s thigh. Zemo slams it down and then quickly steps back, afraid of reflexive retaliation. There’s no need—

Bucky comes to slowly, from what Peter can see on the ground. Barnes’ legs twitch and then he groans. Peter sympathizes. He knows how heavy the drug made him feel.

“Up, soldat,” says Zemo, hand over his gun, just in case.

Bucky sits up, brow a wrinkled mess of confusion. “Why did you bring me along?”

“To protect me,” says Zemo. “You’re my bodyguard.”

Bucky, apparently, stops listening. He does an entire perimeter check of the deserted field with his eyes.

Then they find Peter. His eyes darken so fast even Peter’s heart palpitates in fear. This look is more than menacing.

Bucky looks like he wants to attack Zemo but shuffles to his knees instead. He looks up at the smaller man. “You hurt him.”

Zemo snorts. “He hurt himself.”

Then his face drops and he pushes too close into Peter’s space. “This could all have been over, you know. It was _supposed_ to be over at Barnes’ apartment.”

Peter has absolutely no idea what this psychopath is talking about but Zemo doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are feverish yet strangely focused.

Bucky’s hands hover for a split second and then he’s tugging Peter up and to his chest. Together they find their feet. Bucky isn’t fully at capacity, the drug leaving him groggy.

“Why didn’t you leave?” Bucky whispers. “You could’ve gotten away!”

Peter’s eyes flick to the gun and he suddenly can’t speak, can’t get words out even though they’re burning inside his head.

Bucky understands, though. “Oh, Peter…don’t ever do that for me again, okay?”

Peter doesn’t answer.

Zemo checks his phone and smiles. “Ah. Here come our guests now.”

While Bucky fusses over the broken glass still in Peter’s knuckles and the gash along his forehead, Peter watches two quad bikes roar over the hill and towards them. Zemo stands there with a triumphant yet cautious face.

_What does he want?_ Peter wonders. _What is the point to all this effort if he just took Bucky with him?_

There is a larger end game here, something over Peter’s head and that leaves him frustrated.

At first he thinks the whirring is a fault in the quads. Then he glances at Bucky arm. In the growing daylight, sparks ripple from the chinks and they don’t clip together properly.

“Does this happen often?” Peter asks. He’s dying for some tools.

Bucky follows Peter’s eyes. Instead of answering the question, he grips Peter hard by the hand. “I’m so sorr—”

“Don’t.” Peter’s eyes fill. “I don’t understand what happened on the roof but it wasn’t you.”

“I still did it.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

The very tip of Bucky’s flesh hand reaches out. His touch is so cherub light that Peter wouldn’t have felt it if he wasn’t so focused. It grazes over the marks on his neck.

“I’ll protect you,” says Bucky, fervent and wretched and containing more fire than Peter knows what to do with. “No matter what. It’s the least you deserve after all I’ve done.”

Peter thinks of Tony, pinky fingers linked. _No matter what…_

“Good.” Zemo speaks over the sound of the engines. “Because he’s going to need it.”

Bucky glowers at the gun now poised at the back of Peter’s head. “Get away from him and I’ll do whatever you want.”

Zemo doesn’t move.

Bucky eyes the two men now snickering at the pair. Their quads look brand new—complete with saddle bags just bulging with ammunition. They wear all black with a many limbed insignia over their breasts.

“They _are_ Hydra,” Peter blurts, surprised.

A stale, poisonous note fills the air. Bucky shifts his glare to Zemo. “You made a deal with _them_?”

Peter’s wide eyes fall. He’s missing something again.

“I hired them to flush you out.” Zemo nudges the gun in a hand gesture and Peter can feel the automatic’s cold muzzle through his hair. “And now they are going to secure us a plane for safe passage.”

“Already done, comrade,” says one of the men, taller and grey haired. “Your chariot is just three clicks east of here.”

Zemo laughs along but it’s a cutting sound. They don’t trust each other, that much is clear. It is not this or even the gun that makes him most uneasy.

It is the hungry way they eye Bucky. Not calculating, but knowing. With an air of authority.

Bucky sees and places himself in front of Peter and Zemo.

“There we go,” Zemo mocks. “I knew I brought you along for a reason. That and I need you to fly the plane.”

Bucky says nothing, eyes burning. Peter imagines he’s picturing all the ways he can chop these men into tiny pieces while they’re still alive.

The shorter Hydra agent, a brunette, bares his teeth in a criminal’s version of smiling. “Long time no see, soldat. I’ve missed our playtime. You gave us the slip at your apartment.”

Peter’s shaking in earnest now. He squeezes the metal hand harder and wishes Bucky could feel it.

When Bucky squeezes back, a jerky motion with the busted arm, Peter nearly jumps out of his skin.

_He can feel it! I have _got_ to figure out how electrical signals in that arm work. _

“Here’s the deal,” says Zemo, prodding Peter forward. Bucky rushes to keep the protective stance. “One of you will stay with the helicopter and fly it out before feds get here. The other will take us to the plane. Da?”

The two Hydra agents exchange a look and then nod. The older one stays on the bike, younger one dismounting.

“First, just a precaution,” says the older man. He brings out a strange device. Peter’s knows he’s seen it before but doesn’t know what it means.

Zemo must understand because he takes it from the older man’s hand and scans himself. Then Bucky.

When it passes over Peter, the screen lights up orange.

“Well, well. The urchin is live.” The older agent snatches the scanner out of Zemo’s hand and passes it over Peter’s head again. “Here we are!”

The younger agent’s gloved hand fists in Peter’s hair.

Peter cries out as he’s wrenched back, exposing his sore neck.

“Hey!” Bucky shunts the man off. “Get away!”

Peter falls gratefully against Bucky’s ready arm but it’s too late. Zemo eyes a bead in the man’s hand with disdain. “One of Stark’s.”

_When did Tony even put that on me?_

Peter watches the bead crumple to nothing under Zemo’s boot.

Before the younger agent hops into the helicopter, he sneers at Bucky. “I liked you better with a muzzle.”

The man only gets a breath of warning before Bucky sucker punches him in the jaw. His nostrils flare with heaving, incensed breaths. The agent staggers back, blood gushing from his mouth.

“Now, now.” Zemo laughs. “Let’s play nice.”

Peter checks on the older agent but he doesn’t seem fazed either, even smirking at his junior officer. He waves his arm. “We’re moving out, gentlemen.”

Bucky walks over to mount the empty quad but Zemo pulls him back. “Ah, ah. You ride with your old pal. _I’ll_ take care of our precious cargo.”

Peter’s eyes widen again, this time from fear.

Bucky’s stunned too, still panting with anger and helplessness.

By the time this blow is processed, Zemo has already lifted Peter onto the free quad, himself in the front and Peter in the back.

_Are you kidding? I can just jump—_

Before the thought finishes forming, Zemo yanks Peter’s arms forward. Peter’s arms cage Zemo’s torso.

Peter yelps at the sudden position, forced to lean against Zemo’s back. A pair of zip-ties locks his hands in front. He can’t see them but they’re tightly pressed together.

Bucky hears the cry even over the sound of the engines. His arm moves for Zemo’s throat.

“Not so fast, soldat.” Zemo has one hand on the throttle and the other on the gun, angled around so it’s pointed at Peter’s heart. “Just go with it, Barnes, and you’ll be reunited soon enough.”

Bucky only has eyes for Peter. “I’m here, Peter. I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

He says it over and over again, even when the older man leads him to the other quad. They are the only words Bucky gets out but there’s so much behind them. So many other words pounding at the door of his lips.

Peter hears them. He always hears the unspoken words.

The ride is only three kilometers but it feels longer. Peter’s joints ache from not being able to stabilize himself over the rough terrain, jostled and bounced. The quads ride parallel and this is Peter’s only consolation, that he can see Bucky in his eye line at all times.

“Hush, little boy.” Zemo strokes the hands. Peter wants to pull away at the saccharine reassurance. “Children need to behave for their elders.”

Peter doesn’t know why, but he feels very small and ashamed when Zemo strokes his arm again. Somehow this false comfort is worse than the violence.

Bucky looks over but he can’t do anything. Not with the gun so close to Peter. His eyes darken for the second time that day.

This time, there is no fantasy about chopping up Zemo piece by piece. Peter looks into Bucky’s blank affect face and knows that Bucky will not play games with someone like Zemo.

He’ll put a bullet between his eyes the first chance he gets.

They’re trundling down a gulley, some sort of landing site. The hangar is set in a dip in the valley, so the lights aren’t as visible from outside the crater. One side is completely flat, no lip, and paved as a tarmac. 

Peter suddenly has an idea.

He closes his eyes for a blip, psyching himself up.

_You can do this. Just like stopping a mugger. _

When Peter snaps open his eyes, they’re hard. Abrasive. He refuses to go down quietly, to let someone else control what’s happening.

With one strategic yank of super strength, Peter pulls back on his arms. The zip ties hit Zemo’s diaphragm, choking him out immediately.

Zemo doesn’t even have time to cry out. He projectile vomits onto the quad dashboard and then they’re tumbling off into the dry grass. The gun discharges in a deafening crack, up into the air. One of the zip tie loops snaps, but not the one on Peter’s left wrist.

They roll for what feels like a lifetime, Zemo scrabbling to get both hands around Peter’s neck and Peter trying to grab the gun that has fallen to his side. It’s a vicious fight, Peter’s teeth bared, survival instincts a lit match under his feet to keep him writhing around Zemo in a tangled ball of flesh and hatred.

Peter’s legs twitch and then go suddenly numb and this proves to be his downfall.

Zemo, coughing, snags the gun. Instead of shooting Peter, he whips the pommel around—

Straight into Peter’s head wound.

A burst of primary colours soars through Peter’s vision in full stereo sound and tinsel shower lights.

He doesn’t pass out but that’s somehow worse, Zemo hauling him to his feet, walking them the rest of the way to meet the other quad, parked up ahead. He pants, stumbles, but recovers quicker than Peter expects. It was a long shot, but he still feels ragged that his half baked scheme didn't work. 

Bucky, where he still sits on the quad, isn’t screaming or raging or fighting. He sees the gun against Peter’s scalp and _shivers_. Peter is surprised his eyes aren’t red.

There’s only one airplane in the secret base, primed at the start of the runway.

“That’s our ride!” Zemo shakes the older man’s hand. “Thank you, comrade, for securing this exit.”

The agent sneers. “Anything to snub those idiots at the UN. Herr Schmidt would be proud!”

“Yes,” says Zemo. He pulls the gun away from Peter levels it with the man’s forehead. “He would.”

_What—is he—wait—he can’t—_

Bullet fire cracks into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang, son. I forgot how violent this is. I'll update tags as I go!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony must be irritated too behind that unruffled mask because he kicks out at the leg of the chair before he can stop himself. Steve jostles but keeps his balance.
> 
> “You’re an idiot, you know that? You’re the reason we have a lead at all. By placing that tracker on Peter you gave us a fighting chance. So shut up and let us help you, Joan of Arc.”

It’s a narrow window of opportunity, but it will have to do.

He’s timed it down to the minute—at the three quarter our mark, a UN nurse comes in and writes updated stats on his chart. Ten minutes to the hour, Bruce enters with coffee to ask how he is feeling. The last time, he looked distracted, talking with Tony through a Bluetooth earwig.

Something is going down.

That leaves a three minute window when he is alone and one of the staff closes the door.

As predicted, in shuffles Bruce. He hasn’t slept in God-knows how long and it’s starting to show. His sprained wrist is stiffer and stiffer with each shift.

“They find Peter?” Steve asks. “I heard the team return.”

Bruce avoids Steve’s eyes by checking his systolic readings. “These are low, even for you.”

“Bruce?”

At the softly spoken word, Bruce deflates into the bedside chair. On impulse, Steve snaps his arm out and captures Bruce’s injured hand. Clint did a good job, immobilizing the wrist joint with a black, cotton-Kevlar fabric hybrid.

Steve rubs the abused hand with his thumb. “You shouldn’t have done that, Bruce. Ross would have killed you. Slowly.”

That catches the physicist’s attention. His brows quirk up. “You would have done the exact same for our kid. Drop the act, Steve. You know it was the right thing to do.”

Steve flushes a little, found out. “It was. But what bothers me is that you did it _alone_.”

Bruce apparently has no reply for that. The two friends share a blissful minute of quiet. Even the PA is quiet with no flight announcements or calls for heads of security.

Steve can’t feel Bruce’s pulse through all the fabric, but Bruce searches his out. He clasps Steve back and their arms rest on the bed.

“When did we get so old?” Steve wonders aloud.

Bruce smiles, genuine and filled with a look Steve knows well but most wouldn’t. “I have a theory about that. We’re…we’re _young_, not old. Stuck mentally growing while our bodies refuse to die.”

Not for the first time, Steve is struck by how much he and Bruce share in common, based on their physiology. By rights, it is the same formula running through both their veins.

Distantly, there comes the sound of Clint arguing with someone, shouting.

Steve’s heart rate picks up.

As if the beeping monitor has replaced Steve’s voice and asked a question, Bruce sighs. “Peter was gone by the time strike teams got to the helicopter. Signal cut out on route so we don’t know where he is now. But they did find…”

Steve turns his head from a blank stare at the wall and frowns. “Found what?”

“Not a what…a who.” Bruce’s hand tightens around Steve, probably unconsciously seeing as he’s glaring at the floor. “A mercenary. Most likely hired by Zemo.”

Leaning over to put his other hand on top of Bruce’s, effectively sandwiching the wounded limb, Steve manages a small grin. “We’ll get him back.”

Bruce bristles. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I would never, not for a second. But we will get him back or I’ll die trying.”

They’re cheesy words Steve recited often to troops but they fall flat when Bruce turns watery eyes on him.

“Steve…that’s what I’m worried about. And even if we do find Peter, who’s to say how he’ll be? He just now feels safe enough to talk after what Derrick did…”

Bruce’s voice cracks and he looks away.

Steve’s throat works. “What I mean is…we’ll get him back because if we don’t, his loss _will_ kill me.”

“Me too,” Bruce whispers. “I never thought I’d get to be a parent. It’s like reality caught up with us after all.”

Steve’s eyes crinkle, soft. “I didn’t think I’d get to either.”

“Tony said something to me once, how the Other Guy is a terrible privilege. Maybe parenting is like that too.”

“I disagree. Parenting so far, while wildly confusing sometimes, is a joy.”

Something seems to occur to Bruce suddenly, making his eyes widen. “What about Bucky?”

“What about him?” Steve hedges.

Bruce centers that ancient look on him again.

Steve can’t lie in the face of it. “Bruce. I lost Bucky a long time ago.”

“But you want him back with you.”

Steve blinks. “Of course. He’s…he’s…‘brother’ doesn’t even cut it. He knows me better than I know myself.”

Bruce smiles and this one is more relaxed, less wry.

“But Peter is my new home.” Steve pulls back. “So are you lot.”

Bruce chuckles. “We’ve all gone a little soft.”

“The price of getting ‘old.’”

They share a conspirator’s smile and a thousand words burn on Steve’s tongue. But he gazes at Bruce and realizes he doesn’t have to say a thing, that Bruce can read them all in one sweep.

The scientist stands, stretches, and pats Steve’s knee. His bad hand lingers on Steve for a moment, whether to steady himself or Steve, he’s not sure.

“Get some sleep, Steve.”

“Now who’s being patronizing?”

Bruce just snorts, shutting the door behind him.

_There’s my window._

Steve quickly pulls out the IV, unplugging the heart monitor as he swings his legs to the side so the machine won’t shrill for a nurse.

Thankfully, they’ve left him in his T-shirt and scrub pants. Steve glances around for his jeans but knows he’s running out of those precious three minutes. Sock footed, Steve finally peels off the medical tape securing a nasal cannula to one side of his nose.

The absence of fresh oxygen is noticeable in a dizzying rush. Steve breathes out and almost buckles.

_Bucky got in a really good hit._

After a few seconds of leaning one shoulder on the wall, Steve feels safe enough to stand under his own power. He waits…legs wobble…but they stay. The familiar, empty-gut feeling of a concussion, complete with a head too heavy for his neck, irritates Steve.

They don’t have time for this. Every passing minute jeopardizes Peter’s life, reduces their chance of finding him.

Finally he shuffles to the door, using small steps, and opens the door a crack.

The hallway is clear!

It’s a miracle and Steve doesn’t take it for granted—he’s halfway down it before turning left, following where he’d heard Clint and Tony’s voices earlier.

“Captain Rogers?” Sharon stands there, phone ever present in hand. “Are you—”

“Just trying to find the bathroom. This place is huge!”

Steve puts on his winning smile and thankfully she buys it.

After nodding along, pretending to listen to her directions, he turns down a few corners to put some distance between them. He passes other agents and UN officials, though few give him a second glance.

His steps are small but he’s not ashamed. Anything to find out what’s going on, to just _get up and go_. Sitting around will never appeal to Steve, nor waiting for answers.

This floor alone is a staggering size. Steve passes the window _twice_ before it clicks in his brain.

Steve halts, eyes going sharp, and backs up. The viewing window isn’t very big, not even the wing span of his arms. It’s clearly one-way glass only or the figure sitting in leg and wrist cuffs behind it would have noticed him by now.

Steve leans both hands on the window ledge, both for physical, I-lost-a-lot-of-blood-only-four-hours-ago reasons and because he’s breathless with fury.

There’s fear, tucked safely away from his thoughts, but it slaps him too.

Steve has never seen this man with his own eyes. However, he matches his grainy photograph just fine. Steve can’t remember the man’s name and is angry about that for some reason.

His arms are shaking. He’s not sure which from. His vision goes white for a split second and _that’s_ from pure ire.

He wants to strangle the mercenary, to split him open physically like they did mentally to his friend—

Another face, reflected over Steve’s shoulder in the glass, grows from the shadows and stands beside Steve.

The two men say nothing.

The merc doesn’t seem overly concerned, though he’s alert. Ready. His hands clench in his manacles. He’s cataloging exits over and over in the tiny cell.

_No way out for you this time_, Steve promises.

“We figured you’d recognize him,” says Tony, finally. “He asked about you on the jet ride back.”

Steve bows his head for a moment, knowing he can let his guard down a touch with Tony here. He’s grateful Tony hasn’t shooed him back to his room.

“Who is he, Steve?”

Steve lifts his head and his jaw bulges and twitches. He doesn’t realize he’s going boneless until Tony drags over a plastic chair.

Steve sinks gratefully on the seat. Tony stands at his shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth. Steve must look cold too because Tony takes off his hoodie to wrap it across Steve’s shoulders. He wants to make a joke about it, about how they now have proof he’s not always the mother hen.

But Tony’s face looks so serious that Steve keeps his stormy silence. Lines that don’t exist in Steve’s face burn around his forehead and under his skin. They grate like accusations, injustices.

“He…” His instinct is to scream but his voice gives out and he has to start again. “He’s one of the KGB specialists Hydra hired to brainwash Buck. There were two of them, one active during the cold war and the other in the last two decades or so. I don’t know where the older agent is.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him.” Tony pulls up two photos on his phone. One is of a dead, grey haired man, shot through the forehead. The other is a hidden tarmac. “We think Zemo took off with Peter from this airstrip. I don’t know if they found the tracker or if it’s just not working but we can’t lock a signal.”

“Military is scanning airspace?”

“Yup.” Tony pops the ‘p’ but his jaw works too. “No sign of ‘em.”

“Bucky is flying.”

Tony tears his gaze from the window at that. “You’re sure?”

Steve nods. “Hydra learned how to fly undetected after the war. Twenty bucks says they taught the Winter Soldier that too.”

Tony raises a brow, impressed and not hiding it. Worry for their child swims in his eyes too. There’s no need to panic about worst case scenarios because they’ve all imagined it already, in the privacy of their minds. Steve sees it in Tony’s tightly set lips and the way he checks his phone like clockwork.

Steve resumes glaring at the man through the glass. “I’m glad the other mercenary is dead.”

His vicious, rock hard tone echoes too long on the linoleum flooring, not sounding right coming out of his mouth, but Tony doesn’t bat an eye.

“Me too, Steve.”

Images of Peter thrashing float into his mind, how scared he’d looked, frantic. How he was ready to climb the walls—literally—to get to his new friend. How pale he’d been in that brief struggle. How his legs weren’t moving right.

To Steve’s utter shock, he feels his eyes burn. “I shouldn’t have let Bucky get the jump on me. If I’d just taken Peter back inside—”

Tony leans back on the ledge so he’s facing Steve, arms crossed. “Don’t you _dare_. This isn’t your fault. And as much as it pains me to admit, it’s not Barnes’ fault either.”

“Yes it is! My fault, I mean.” Steve thumbs away a tear, beyond vexed with himself. “I lost him for a _second time_, Tony! I shouldn’t be trusted with him. _Me_, of all people. I was responsible both times he got snatched.”

Tony must be irritated too behind that unruffled mask because he kicks out at the leg of the chair before he can stop himself. Steve jostles but keeps his balance.

“You’re an idiot, you know that? You’re the reason we have a lead at all. By placing that tracker on Peter you gave us a fighting chance. So shut up and let us help you, Joan of Arc.”

Steve hangs his head, ashamed at last, because of the tears. They won’t help Peter. Neither will sitting here.

_Why did you promise to keep him safe? You can’t even do that right._

A hand comes down on Steve’s shoulder. He doesn’t look up, but he knows that grip. It moves away to slip the IV back in his elbow.

Tony watches Bruce intensely. “Can you handle being here right now?”

“I can handle it.” Bruce glances at the mercenary. Then he taps Steve’s blue patient bracelet. “That was a dumb thing to do. But…I would have done the same thing.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Some doctor you are.”

Steve musters his courage to raise his eyes in time to catch Bruce’s cheeky wink at him.

A balloon inflates in his chest.

_You don’t have to do this by yourself. Not anymore. _

“Can you believe it?” says Clint, walking towards them down the hall, coffee in hand. “Teams caught this bastard trying to start the helicopter and get away. Not sure why Zemo did that.”

Another hand settles on Steve’s shoulder but this one is too light to be any of the men.

Then it’s just the five of them in a huddle at the window. Their faces hover in the reflection, Nat’s hair throwing rose sepia light over their shadows. A quintet of lost people united by their lost son.

Steve gasps, putting something together. “Zemo planned for us to catch this mercenary.”

“What?” Then Bruce’s face smooths. “Wait a minute…Ross said something similar, that Zemo wanted us to get his name eventually, that he didn’t plan on being secretive after getting Peter into Europe.”

Clint takes a sip of coffee. “Why not just kill this merc like the other one? Why the elaborate need for us to take him into custody alive?”

Natasha swallows, loud enough that Steve can hear it. She too wears a look of recognition when she stares at the man’s face. Hers is sallow. He sees years of abuse by the KGB and Red Room in her face.

“I’m more concerned with why he needs Bucky,” says Steve. “That part doesn’t make any sense at all. It can’t be just to fly a plane, not when the mercenary also knew how to do it. Even Zemo has basic flight training.”

“Well…Peter foiled Zemo’s plan,” Bruce reasons, “by ‘waking’ Barnes. Maybe this isn’t in the plan. Maybe he’s making this up as he goes along.”

“What do we know about Zemo?” Tony asks.

Nat swallows again and her voice comes out mostly steady. “Not much. Parts of his file were wiped but he’s been civilian for a while after working with the military.”

Bruce rubs his forehead, looking as baffled as Steve feels. “None of this makes any sense, does it? Some random guy kidnaps Peter to incriminate Barnes. Then takes them _both_ hostage to go…somewhere. Does he need Peter to make Bucky cooperate? Wouldn’t it have been safer to keep the other mercenary alive?”

“Aaannnd we circle back to the original question.” Clint gestures at their perp with the cup. “Why leave Mr. Psychopath here alive, easy pickings for us to catch him?”

Tony shares a look with Steve. “Let’s go ask him.”

“Great idea.” Clint sniffs and adjusts a few knives on his belt. “Me first.”

Tony shakes his head. “Nope. Dorothy here gets the honours.”

Bruce frowns at bandages on Steve’s face. “Is that a good idea?”

“Probably not,” Steve admits. “But he tortured my best friend and Natasha. If I can’t kill him, the least I can do is squeeze it out of him.”

Everyone subtly eyes Natasha, who looks gratefully at Steve, but they don’t argue.

Steve manages to find his feet—not missing the hands tensed to catch him if he falls—slides the IV out of his arm, and opens the door.

Immediately, color drains from the merc’s face. A fire of vengeful pleasure _burns_ in Steve’s gut at the sight. They have a chance. 

_I’m coming, Peter, Bucky. Hold on._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Children are such interesting people, the way they change adults around them like water on marble. Wouldn’t you agree?”
> 
> Peter feels like he’s playing with fire and doesn’t know why. His danger sense hums.
> 
> “Peter,” says Zemo quietly. “I took you because you are the Avengers’ _son_.”

The vomiting lasts forever. If this is what drinking will feel like, jury’s out.

Nothing is real enough, like instead of Midas’ touch, he’s got plastic touch. Everything is tight and shiny and too bright.

“—eter?”

Nothing sounds real either, apparently.

“Peter?” The tinny voice tries again. “I’m almost done setting controls. Hang on. I’m coming.”

Peter doesn’t know what any of this means. He’s perched on one side of the military plane’s benches. Zemo slid a bucket under his mouth with his foot in time for Peter to hurl up his entire digestive system. Or so it feels.

At first Zemo had been tense and rigid with leftover abdominal pain, after carrying a screaming Peter away from the dead body. He’d kept his gun flush with Peter’s right temple. Bucky hadn’t uttered a word, initiating take off in silence.

Now, with Peter so incapacitated, Zemo lets his guard down, enough that the gun rests in the man’s lap and not on Peter’s head.

Peter knows the image of the mercenary’s eyes going blank will haunt him for the rest of his life. The way brain matter sprayed everywhere. Peter still wears some of it on his shirt.

He throws up again.

“Easy, little spider.” Zemo actually looks concerned for a moment. Peter’s been vomiting for fifteen minutes straight, though now it’s just dry heaving. That has to be some kind of record. “Take deep breaths or you’ll pass out.”

“Do you even care if I do?” Peter snaps.

“Not really. But it will be very unpleasant for you.”

And then Zemo does it again: he strokes the sweat matted hair back from Peter’s forehead, thumb smoothing in a circle.

Peter freezes.

The action is so unquestionably _parental_. But something about it makes hairs on the back of his neck prickle. It’s fatherly, gentle. It’s not a gesture meant to taunt or mess with his head.

Zemo just…does it. Instinctive.

For some reason Peter can’t explain, he wishes Zemo would hit him instead. This is worse than abuse.

He distracts himself with what he’s been wanting to ask all along.

Peter wipes his mouth with his sleeve and sits back. “Why, if you know I’m Spiderman, don’t you use that to your advantage? Is that part of why you kidnapped me?”

Bucky whips around to stare at Peter but says nothing. He takes the news rather well, considering he’s flying a military grade plane.

Zemo considers the question. “You being Spiderman has absolutely nothing to do with why I took you, Mr. Parker. I couldn’t care less. I only needed your physiology information from Ross to know how to best sedate you.”

Peter gapes. This isn’t how most villain encounters go down.

Zemo takes out his phone with his free hand and scrolls through until he finds a picture near the bottom. He flips the screen around to show a brightly lit photo.

It’s of a sandy haired boy, maybe eight years old. He’s on a swing set, gap toothed grin on full display for the camera. His hair is flared slightly from the downwards motion of the swing.

“My son.” Zemo smiles and Peter dislikes this expression immediately. “Isn’t he beautiful? He loves when I take him to the park.”

“Shouldn’t you be with him, then?”

Zemo nods. “I should. You’re right. Children are such interesting people, the way they change adults around them like water on marble. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Peter feels like he’s playing with fire and doesn’t know why. His danger sense hums.

“Peter,” says Zemo quietly. “I took you because you are the Avengers’ _son_.”

There’s a ringing in Peter’s ears. It’s obvious, of course he’s known this has to be part of the reason for him being targeted, but the way Zemo says it is fervent. Supernal in the way a decrepit church is.

Bucky stands suddenly, startling both of them. He plants himself before Zemo with a hard face. “I’ve set the autopilot to your coordinates. Now let me check his injuries.”

Zemo’s scowl is back. “No. I am under no illusions about power. I’m outnumbered here by two stronger than myself. Your concern for this boy—and the desire for me not to kill him—is the only thing keeping me alive.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Why did you shoot my former handler? He could have protected you from me.”

It’s Peter’s turn to look sharply at Bucky. He’s heard the term ‘Winter Soldier’ when Steve and Sam sometimes go over old folders written in Russian…but he’s beginning to understand what it might mean.

Zemo huffs. “I killed him for the satisfaction, soldat. He deserved it.”

Like Zemo has struck Bucky, the man takes a half step back. He looks genuinely surprised.

So is Peter. This is all kinds of weird.

Peter, and clearly Bucky, assumed Zemo was sympathetic to Hydra. Now…now Peter has more questions than answers. And they’re multiplying by the minute. 

“I know where we’re going,” says Bucky. “And _he _is not getting within ten feet of it. Of them.”

Peter squirms not at Bucky’s hand, pointed at him, but Zemo’s hand settling around his shoulders.

Bucky growls at the sight. “Don’t touch him.”

Zemo ignores him. “Are you hungry, Peter?”

Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t want to eat ever again. The dead merc flashes again before his eyes. His stomach does a flip but he doesn’t gag. Progress.

“Oh, you must be, especially with what I imagine is a fast metabolism. I made sure to have food on board.”

Finally, Zemo looks up and acknowledges Bucky, the flint in his eyes where they are fixated on the hand around Peter. Peter wants to break it too.

He’s already considered doing just that, disarming Zemo, but the gun is too close to his body. He doesn’t care so much if he dies. Bucky, however, would be shot before he could blink.

“Sergeant Barnes, would you go to the crate under the co-pilot’s seat? There are sandwiches and juice.”

Bucky doesn’t move. He breathes slowly through his nose. “Not until you get your hand off him. He’s in enough discomfort as is.”

Zemo appraises Bucky for a long stretch. Long enough to be uncomfortable and certainly long enough for Peter to start to shake. He wants to go home. He wants his _family_.

Only when Zemo carefully removes his arm does Peter realize it has been rubbing circles in his opposite shoulder.

He shudders.

Bucky sees and twitches with an instinct not unlike Zemo’s of moments earlier.

“I’ll make you a deal,” says Zemo. “You tend to him and I keep the gun to your head. One wrong move and the boy sees a second man die today. Fair?”

It’s almost comical, really, the way this scene echoes that of the warehouse before. Except it’s not funny. Not at all. Peter’s shaking in earnest now and is exasperated by it, that he can’t control his own body.

Bucky nods and walks to the co-pilot’s seat. After retrieving a sandwich and a water bottle, he also unclips a med kit strapped to the wall.

Zemo stands, gun raised in his right hand. Bucky doesn’t even bother giving him a dirty look in his beeline to Peter.

Peter figures he’ll kneel down or sit beside him to change the bloody bandages.

Instead, he scoops Peter up under his knees and takes Peter’s spot, the boy sideways in his lap. Peter is shocked for a split second and then he suddenly doesn’t care about teenage image—

He tangles a hand in Bucky’s shirt and rests his forehead on his fist.

_Safe._ His danger sense quiets, a relieved, tearful hush. _We’re both alive. _

Bucky doesn’t bother with medicine or food right away. He just wraps both arms tightly around Peter and whispers into his hair. It’s an emotional mess of Russian, English, and some Asian language Peter doesn’t know but that’s okay. It’s the tender tone he listens to.

“I’m so sorry you had to see that,” Bucky breathes. “And that I was separated from you. It won’t happen again.”

Peter expects himself to cry, to break down now that he knows he’s not alone.

So it comes as a surprise when Peter feels a smile creep onto his face. He breathes out, and it is indeed shaky, trembling all over, but his chest hums with a low laugh.

Bucky pulls back to look at Peter’s face. “What’s so funny, punk?”

“I don’t know.” Peter tires and leans his head on Bucky’s collar bone. “You seem to have that effect on me.”

Bucky checks his pupil dilation. “No concussion. You really are just crazy.”

Peter smiles again. “This isn’t exactly how I saw my first trip to Northern Europe going.”

“Oh, you know. Misery loves company.” Bucky unwraps the bandages on his forearms. “They’ve already started to scar over. That’s good. Now for that hand.”

He opens the med box and removes the last bits of glass from Peter’s knuckles. Once they’re securely wrapped, Bucky uses one of the alcohol wipes to slowly remove the layer of grime, brain matter, and blood from Peter’s face. Something in the man’s face breaks when he sees how assaulted Peter’s been.

Peter ducks his head but Bucky isn’t having it. He tugs Peter’s chin up. “Hey, hey, hey. You have nothing to be ashamed of, you understand? You’re not weak for what _he _did to you. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

Too tired to get in an argument over what Peter suspects is a polite lie, he doesn’t reply.

Bucky’s face is troubled but he squeezes the nape of Peter’s neck.

Next he pats Peter down for broken limbs or fractures. Finding nothing other than the head cut, Bucky breathes out a sigh of relief. Peter is lulled by the warmth of the body surrounding him, eyes heavy and desperate to shut, but something bothers him.

“Bucky?”

“Mmm? Yeah, what’s wrong, Peter?”

Now the tears come. Two fat ones well up and mar the pale skin on his face.

Bucky straightens, alarmed. “Peter? Where does it hurt?”

_I didn’t tell Tony. What if I waited too long?_

“Peter?” Bucky is pale and even Zemo shifts on his feet, intent but silent up to this point. “Talk to me, bud.”

Peter chokes on a small sob. “I couldn’t tell Tony and Nat. Especially not Bruce.”

“Tell them what?” Bucky’s voice is calm but urgent. He rifles under Peter’s sweater again, trying to find the serious wound. “Pete, please. What do you need?”

Peter reddens, helpless. “I…I can’t…”

Bucky stills. He must see something vulnerable in Peter’s already exposed face. His flesh arm loops underneath Peter’s neck and hitches him up close to Bucky’s chin so the man can lean down and speak in his ear.

“It’s alright, Peter. I’m here. I know this situation sucks but you’re not facing it alone. You can tell me anything and I won’t hurt or judge you for it.”

He lets Peter just breathe for another minute, processing this hellhole of a day. Peter accepts the water bottle at his lips and downs it in four gulps. Bucky moves to open a canister of T3 and then seems to think better of it.

“Pete, I want to give you something for the pain I know you’re in…but it’s not wise until I know what the hurt is from.”

Peter points to his feet. Bucky immediately lifts those into his lap too, fumbling to untie the laces with his metal fingers.

With an unsteady hand, Peter grabs at him. Bucky is confused but he stops when Peter shakes his head.

“Watch,” says Peter.

First he wiggles his feet back and forth.

“Okay.” Bucky squints. “What are you…”

Peter waits a minute. Then he tries again.

They won’t move.

Bucky gets it when he flicks Peter’s knees with his metal thumb and the boy doesn’t even blink.

Bucky closes his eyes for a second. “Oh, Peter…”

Peter grits his teeth. “Sometimes the feeling in my legs just…cuts out. Like a bad radio connection. One minute they’re sort of fine and the next they’re numb, like I’m…”

He can’t say the ‘p’ word. If someone magically appeared in this airplane and offered him a free ride out, red carpet and all, he doesn’t think he could say it.

In devastated silence, Bucky hands him two T3 tablets and Peter throws them back.

“I hope you’re happy,” Bucky snarls at Zemo. “Your mercenary’s bullet did this.”

Zemo doesn’t move. He barely blinks. Peter can’t read the solemn set of his eyes.

“My spine,” Peter realizes. “In your apartment, the bullet grazed my spine…”

“I’m so sorry, Peter.” Bucky’s arms tighten. “So sorry that you got caught up in all this.”

Peter isn’t sure what ‘all this’ is.

But he knows what he can do to make it better.

“Help me sit up.”

Bucky does so with wariness in his eyes and tense from the gun moving closer to his head.

Peter squares his shoulders. He looks Zemo in the eye after a beat of mustering his courage. He tries to look as serious as he can sitting in a professional killer’s lap. “Can I have some tools?”

Zemo barks a harsh laugh. “Me, give you a potential weapon? I don’t think so. We don't want a repeat of that show on the tarmac.”

Peter fights the wave of shame. “I’m not strong enough to fight anyone like this.” It’s more painful to admit than he expects. He looks at Bucky. “Sorry.”

Bucky wraps both arms around his middle. “Stop apologizing. What do you want the tools for?”

“To fix your arm.”

Bucky’s mouth drops open. “Do you even know how to do that? KGB scientists barely understood how it works.”

“He does.” Zemo answers this one. “He’s somewhat of a child genius when it comes to science. Aren’t you, Mr. Parker?”

_There’s the taunting._

Bucky looks taken aback.

“Don’t you need Sergeant Barnes in peak condition for…wherever we’re going?” Peter pushes.

Zemo concedes this with a tip of his head. Then he laughs. It’s even worse than the smiling.

“I certainly do, Mr. Parker.” Zemo lunges forward in a flurry of motion. He’s got a hand twisted in Peter’s shirt, hoisting his feet off the ground, before Bucky can take a breath. Bucky clamps his metal hand down on the wrist choking Peter.

“You let him go,” Bucky hisses, “Or I’ll snap your neck one handed.”

Peter wants to flail his legs but they’re AWOL again. He strains for air.

Suddenly the controls chirp. All three turn to the sound.

Zemo drops Peter with a sneer. Peter lands in a curled heap, coughing, and Bucky goes right down with him.

“Congratulations, gentlemen. We’re almost at our destination.”

Zemo bends, gun resting placidly at Peter’s red neck, and caresses his curls. “And you’re right. I do need Barnes’ arm in peak condition—especially for when he kills you with it.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a part of Steve admits what he’s wondered all along in that secret cupboard inside his heart—is he selfish to want both at the same time? To want Bucky _and_ Peter?

“That’s it?”

“I swear!” The young KGB agent holds up both hands. He’s still tense after an hour of this. “Zemo wouldn’t tell us the whole plan and this was a back up one anyway. He hired us to break into Barnes’s apartment, drive him out, then if that didn’t work – get a plane and safe passage.”

“Any idea why he needs Barnes?”

The man looks confused for the first time. “Honestly, no. The plan was for one of you to kill Barnes when you saw he had your kid, in the warehouse. Because you thought he kidnapped him. Don’t you get it? He wanted you to fight each other.”

“It didn’t work.”

The man shakes his head. “He didn’t anticipate your mercy.”

Steve frowns. “But he meant to take Peter as part of this…Plan B?”

“Oh yeah. That was always part of the deal, to make you come after him.”

“It’s working, unfortunately.”

Steve’s eyes are even more of a colourless grey from the overhead fluorescents. His head throbs but nothing of the pain shows on his face.

For some reason, the sight of this mercenary looking up at him, the room’s sterile smell, it all throws Steve’s thoughts back in time. He thinks of walking the beach with his mother in November…

Of Bucky holding an umbrella over him at a sparse funeral.

He’s traded one body for another. One family for another.

And a part of Steve admits what he’s wondered all along in that secret cupboard inside his heart—is he selfish to want both at the same time? To want Bucky _and_ Peter?

Outside, it starts to rain. Like an artist’s watercolour painting ruined, Steve’s memories run together in a swirl of wrong colours.

And he’s back in the interrogation room.

“You managed Sergeant Barnes,” Steve tries again. He’s got one hand on his hip, the other braced on the table in front of the man. “You were his more modern day…handler.”

The word tastes wrong. Steve makes a face.

The man shrugs. “Hydra paid good money. Should have heard the Soldier scream when we put him under…”

At the last second, the man catches himself and looks up at Steve with another bout of fear. He’s fluctuated between cocky bragging, indifference, and terror. It’s not the man’s first mention of his time with KGB.

It is his first mention of Bucky.

Steve doesn’t lash out. He rests his hip on the table and puts a hand on the man’s shoulder—

Right at the artery, the primary one that delivers oxygen to the brain.

The man pales further.

Steve’s voice comes out lullaby-soft. “What aren’t you telling me?”

In a surprising move, the agent’s eyes flick to the mirror. Steve’s don’t but he feels the first stirring of unease, like he overlooked something crucial. He knows who’s behind that glass, knows he wasn’t old enough to even remotely be a part of this.

The man swallows, eyes haunted. “I thought it was just a rumor when Baron Strucker talked about it. A fantasy dream that couldn’t be real.”

“About what?” Steve whispers back.

At last, the man meets his eyes full on. “About making more like the Winter Soldier. An elite team that can take down governments in one night.”

Steve is so stunned that he gets up and puts distance between them. He walks to the window and back halfway, hand worrying at his hair.

The merc pants, even though he’s the one sitting. “The think tank on the project disbanded and it was shut down.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know!”

“_Where_?” Steve barks through a tight jaw.

The agent is sweating now, so harried that Steve doesn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. Either way it doesn’t sit right, that this man trained for the most brutal hostage and combat situations is flustered so easily.

“Somewhere in Siberia,” the man wheezes. “That’s Zemo’s final destination. I don’t know exactly where.”

Steve shoots for the door and shuts it behind him. Natasha is already on the phone.

“Can you track the plane’s route?” Steve asks, breathless.

“No.” Natasha tilts her head, her eyes still fixated on the man with that casual calculation that means she’s thinking of the best place to stab someone. “But I have contacts who will keep an eye out for when they land. Even if Zemo parks that plane in the middle of nowhere, he _still_ needs gear to get across the snow.”

She saunters down the hall after giving Steve a quick, ‘thank you’ shoulder squeeze.

“At least we know what Zemo’s been after,” Bruce points out.

“I still say it seems too elaborate,” says Clint. “Has anyone heard from Thor? We could really use him on this one. He deserves to know about Peter.”

Bruce shakes his head. “He left right after we got back from Greece. Something about a family crisis.”

Clint sighs, looking old around the eyes. “I’ll prep the jet. I know we took a backseat, followed our UN contract, for catching this bastard but…I won’t do it again.”

Steve nods, conceding this point. “I’m still letting the UN know. We just won’t give them a location.”

Clint walks off with a two fingered salute, Bruce in tow.

Then it is just Tony and Steve. Tony doesn’t say a word.

There’s something odd about how still he is. No fidgeting. No chatter. Not even a smug smile for getting the truth out of the KGB agent.

“Zemo wants to take down the US government using sleeper assassins and us out of the picture for it.” Steve runs a hand over his eyes. “Normal Tuesday, right?”

Tony, again, doesn’t respond. He hasn’t stopped looking through the glass. Neither has the perp on the other side. Their unintentional stare off sends a chill down Steve’s spine.

It is so silent for so long that Steve is startled when Tony clears his throat. He still won’t look away from the interrogation room.

“Peter would be in classes right now.”

Steve nods, slow and then picking up speed. “Right. Ned probably took notes for him.”

“He’s supposed to be in school,” says Tony, lower.

Steve doesn’t notice that Tony has teared up until the glass fogs a little.

The moment of emotion is over as quickly as it comes; when Tony turns around, he’s all business again.

“We’re missing something,” he says.

Hearing his own doubts aloud, Steve flounders. “I know.”

“We’re supposed to be the best of the best,” Tony fumes, “And we couldn’t keep our own child safe. He’s meant to be having a life, at school…”

Again, Tony falters on this point.

And it clicks. It clicks so fast that Steve is dizzy again.

He grips Tony’s arm, to steady them both. Tony looks up. It is the first time the man has made eye contact since the interrogation.

“Tony.” Steve has to start again. “Tony, what happened to you, when you were in college, won’t happen to Peter.”

“I’m not worried about _us_ dying.” Tony’s eyes sag shut for a millisecond and it is a gesture of more vulnerability than the loudest sob. Steve is almost honoured that he got to see it. “I don’t know if I can cope with losing him too.”

“None of us can.” Steve thinks of his words to Bruce and realizes they are true of everyone on this team. “If he dies, we all do.”

“It’s dangerous,” Tony says, defensive and all in a rush. “Getting this attached to someone. I didn’t even know it was possible to love a human being as much as I do that kid. There’s nothing more dangerous than that.”

Steve closes his own eyes and takes a long breath. He thinks of walking with Peter under the stars. The smell of grass stains on their clothes and that honey musk of his shampoo whenever he held the boy close.

When Steve opens his eyes, Tony grips him back.

“It is dangerous, Tony, but that’s why it’s worth it.”

Tony’s eyes are bright again.

Nat saves them a complete breakdown by skidding around the corner. “We got them! Barnes just sent an encoded message from the plane!”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sergeant Barnes,” says Zemo, halting with them halfway down a flight of cobweb-riddled stairs. He looks as surprised as he did on the embassy rooftop. “Do you really think I did all this just for some assassins to over throw the US?”

Syringes will forever be associated with evil from now on.

Zemo only uses one more, not enough to knock Bucky out, but enough to make him dazed. Between his bleary eyes that can’t focus on anything and Peter’s useless legs, he knows they’re not making a great escape any time soon.

Peter fights it as long as he can. He even pinches himself. But it’s no use.

As soon as Zemo prods them into the snow cat with a wave of his gun, Bucky limp against Peter’s shoulder, the engine starts and Peter’s adrenaline crashes.

Before he nods off, Peter thinks of what his parents must be doing. Are they cool and collected? Do they have a plan?

He’s scared. He can’t lie to himself but he does intend to face it in a way that would make his family proud.

When he wakes, the landscape hasn’t changed much.

“Bucky?” He nudges the man’s flesh shoulder. “Are you okay? You just took that needle without a fight.”

Bucky blinks, feverish, up at Peter. “Had to…protect…protect you.”

Peter makes a face. “Well, don’t. Okay?”

Bucky actually manages a smirk. “Tough.”

“Are you really alright?”

Bucky is quiet, eyes half lidded.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, Peter. I’m alright. A few bullets grazed me too but Steve treated them up nicely.”

At just the mention of Steve’s name, they both frown. Peter buries his face in Bucky’s hair to hide from Zemo’s intense eyes staring back at them from the rear-view mirror.

The following hours pass in a haze. Such a feverish stupor that Peter wonders at points if he too has been drugged.

Then he feels his back growing hot. He realizes Bucky hasn’t had time to change those particular bandages and he probably _is _feverish.

They stop only once, to refuel the snow cat at an outpost in the middle of nowhere. This exchange is completely wordless, Zemo only nodding to a grizzled man at the pump and handing him some cash with a nod.

Peter relieves himself in the snow once his legs regain feeling for a brief minute and checks on Bucky’s clammy face. Still breathing.

Civilization snakes away behind them, growing ever distant until this barren, blanch terrain resembles the surface of the moon.

Bucky too only wakes once. His pupils dilate impossibly fast when he opens his eyes, on the alert before he fully comes to awareness.

“It’s okay,” Peter murmurs over the noise of the engine. “Not much has changed. I’m…” After a moment of wrestling with his trembling lips, Peter turns his head to hide them. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

Bucky struggles to sit up, muscles lax without his permission. “Look at me, kid.”

Peter keeps his eyes out the window. He’s lost feeling in his fingers and ear tips. Zemo glances back but says nothing. Peter knows he’s not meant to live through this because Zemo doesn’t offer him any mittens or gear, doesn’t care that his knuckles are bleeding again.

“Kid. Pete…Peter. Please.”

Peter faces forward and goes the rest of the distance with his eyes. Bucky cups his cheek in one cold, metal hand. Peter leans into it despite himself.

Bucky’s smile is faint but warm. “What’s goin’ on, punk?”

“You could’ve escaped a hundred times over by now.” Peter’s nose wrinkles with disgust for himself. “I’m the liability, the only reason you’ve let him harm you.”

Bucky shakes his head but Peter isn’t having it. “It’s true! I can’t even walk properly, let alone assist in getting out of here.”

Bucky, sitting up as the drugs metabolize from his system, smooths Peter’s hair back from his forehead. “I knew a kid like you once. Tiny. Thin. Too selfless to know when to ask for help.”

Peter looks away again, lips tight.

“You know what happened to him?”

Peter racks his brain to think of the Howling Commandos and what scrawny person he’s talking about.

Bucky flexes his malfunctioning fingers. “He dove head first into the fight without me. Nearly got himself killed. Many times, I might add. But he’s also learning to trust people. You’re both kind hearts like that.”

An icy burn flushes through Peter’s system as he gets it. He locks eyes with Bucky. His frozen curls melt against his neck’s sudden flush and it’s a tidal wave of feelings to sift through. Bucky doesn’t look away or redact his statement.

“You’re wrong,” says Peter, hushed like he’s at a funeral. “I’m nothing like him. This situation should be proof enough of that. I f-failed.”

Bucky’s eyes spark. “Do you know how he and I stopped Schmidt?”

There’s a gunfire popping sound and it makes Peter’s eyes widen. Zemo still has both hands on the wheel so what…?

Peter looks down at Bucky. The man’s face hasn’t changed much but his Adam’s apple bobs in time with his rib cage.

Peter, astonished by this sight, chuckles a bit too.

Bucky’s mirth dies in a wave of obvious pain on his face. His eyes still flash with neon bright memories. “We went to a bar and recruited a bunch of army misfits.”

A tarp sits under their shoes and Peter lifts it up, tucks it around Bucky’s pale frame. The man thanks him with a nod. His five o clock shadow has turned into full scruff and that half sandwich they’d each devoured isn’t cutting it, Peter can see. His own stomach gnaws in angry spasms.

“Sounds familiar,” Peter replies at last.

“It does. Your family, your misfits, will come. And it’s why we’re going to be okay, Peter.”

The words hang in the air the way a child’s stuffed animal does in the waiting area of a hospital. Gaudy, out of place. Colors too decided and primary.

“No,” Peter whispers. “We’re probably not, Bucky. In fact, we’re going to die and you know it.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a long time. Long enough for the sun to start to set in the short days here.

“You’re more grown up than all of us, Pete, you know that?”

Peter isn’t sure what this means but he wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and squeezes him tight.

Day melts into night and back.

Peter wonders if he’s been sitting in the back of this machine his entire life, an ill super soldier leaning at his side and a calculated murderer driving them into the most remote place on earth. It’s probably not the most remote place on earth, but Peter has seen enough of this landscape to make an argument for it.

Both their wounds seep sluggish blood, browned and hot. Bucky pants a little. Infection plagues them more than the drugs.

“They’re not coming for us,” says Peter. “Zemo destroyed the tracking bead.”

Bucky and Zemo make eye contact in the mirror.

“I should probably thank you for that.” The sound of Zemo’s voice for the first time in almost a day makes Peter jolt. “Your encoded message from the plane will draw them here quite nicely, soldat.”

Bucky glares back.

“Encoded message?” Peter’s voice is breathy to match the plume of white he speaks into the air. “You…you gave my parents our coordinates.”

Bucky answers Peter but he’s still eyeing Zemo. “Either fortunately or unfortunately.”

“We’ll soon find out,” says Zemo and suddenly—irritably—sounds like he’s enjoying himself. “You really didn’t think I’d notice, soldat? Please. Ah! Here we are. Out. Let’s move.”

Peter can’t feel his legs, hasn’t been able to for almost three hours, so when the snow cat shudders to a stop, Bucky swings the boy onto his hip. It doesn’t escape Peter’s notice that he uses his flesh hand to do so.

“Sorry,” Peter whispers.

“Stop apologizing.” Bucky’s voice is gruff.

He’s more and more on edge the closer they get to a set of bunker doors set into a rough outcropping.

Bucky’s and Zemo’s boots crunch on the untouched snow. They all shiver in the oppressive cold.

Zemo uses his gun to shoot open the locked door. “After you, Sergeant.”

Bucky’s eyes glaze in a way that has nothing to do with drugs. He breathes harshly through his nose.

“No.”

Peter, though Bucky cradles him carefully, is scared of Barnes for the first time, of this voice that doesn’t sound like Bucky at all.

“Excuse me?” Zemo cocks the gun again. “Would you rather I shoot this teenager?”

“I said no.” Bucky’s shaking. Faint, invisible tremors that make the plates on his arms whir and spark. “_No_.”

Zemo clenches Peter’s shoulder in a vice grip. “Convince him.”

Peter wants to yell _No! I’m not playing your sadistic games anymore!_

But the gun is again placed at Bucky’s temple. Peter’s so sick of this he simply sighs and pats at Bucky’s cheek with his numb fingers. “Bucky? I…I don’t know what this place is but no one’s down there. No Hydra.”

Bucky turns his head to look at Peter. “Malysh?”

Peter blinks. “Sure. You can call me that. Everyone else has these d-dumb nicknames for me so hop on the band wagon.”

“Malysh?” he says again.

“Gazuntite. I want you to stay alive and you want me to stay alive so why don’t we just duck inside. It’ll be warmer out of the wind at least, right? Come on, that’s it.”

Zemo prods at Bucky with the automatic and the ex-soldier starts moving. His face is completely stone set; Peter can’t read its micro expressions at all.

“What’s down here?” Peter asks.

Zemo smiles but it’s grim. “You’ll see.”

“They won’t help you,” Bucky says. “They’ll kill anything in their path, including us. I don’t know what government you want to overthrow—”

“Sergeant Barnes,” says Zemo, halting with them halfway down a flight of cobweb-riddled stairs. He looks as surprised as he did on the embassy rooftop. “Do you really think I did all this just for some assassins to over throw the US?”

Bucky considers that. He mutters in Russian before switching to English. “Yes. I do.”

This time it’s Zemo who swears in another language, German by the sound of it. Peter huffs, feeling the burn of his spine and hating the combination of fever sweating and shivers.

His head lolls forward onto Bucky’s collarbone.

“Whoa, whoa.” Bucky cups the back of Peter’s head to steady the sudden motion. He sounds alarmed. “What was that?”

“I…I don’t know.” Peter’s face burns. He struggles to get his head upright and is embarrassed when Bucky has to help him. “Sorry. I just…couldn’t hold it up for a second there.”

Bucky’s face is back to open, looking stricken. Peter isn’t sure he likes this better. He wants to ask Barnes, who surely has more medical knowledge, what the inability to hold his neck up might be from but decides he has enough on his worry plate for now.

When they finally climb down another set of stairs and ride an elevator, Peter is shocked to see six tanks, three on each side of a massive concrete room. It has an armored bunker, bullet proof window and all, at the back.

A cupboard of rifles leans against one wall. Zemo retrieves an AK-47, checks the dusty clip, and loads it.

Bucky squares his stance, angling his body so Peter is out of the line of fire. “What are you…?”

Zemo throws a wry look at Bucky. “I’m stopping an evil Hydra initiated years before. You helped train them, remember?”

Only with these words does Peter realize there’s something _in _each of the yellowed tanks.

“They’re…people! Bucky, what does he mean that you—”

Bucky breathes hard. “They’re monsters, Zemo.”

“Exactly. They’re lucky to have such a peaceful, painless end.”

Zemo levels his rifle on the first figure in the tank, a darker skinned man. Peter gasps.

One by one, in total silence, six shots ring out. Peter flinches every time a shell casing _plinks_ to the cold stone.

Bucky doesn’t lift a finger to stop him.

Peter’s back to panting. He rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder. “Think I’m…going to th-throw up again.”

Bucky immediately lowers himself, shakily, to one knee. He braces Peter over it, supporting his chest with his good hand. A thin stream of bile spills to the floor but little else.

Peter feels like he’s dying.

“Easy, Peter. Take your time. It’s alright. We’re alright. Don’t look at the bodies. It helps, trust me.”

Peter nods, clutching at the arm around him with both hands. Bucky pulls him against his chest. Peter’s wheezes echo in the Spartan theater and Bucky shifts him higher so he can breathe. 

When Zemo finishes, he spits at the foot of the first tank. “Good riddance.”

He slings the backpack off his shoulders and digs through it one handed, the other still holding the rifle. A leather tool bag is thrown at Peter’s knees.

“Fix him,” Zemo barks. “We’re running out of time.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why?” Peter demands. Bucky fumbles for his hand. “What was the point of it all?”
> 
> Zemo’s eyes are wracked: in one instant furious, in the next so broken that Peter feels light headed. It doesn’t make any sense, but Peter feels he’s looking into Tony’s eyes. They’re so similar.
> 
> “Have you ever heard the story of Abraham and Isaac, Peter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a crap-ton of research for this chapter but as I am not a scientist, alas, I'm sure I got some of it wrong. So...disclaimer apology for my pseudo-science I guess?

“You’re sure?”

Nat nods, fiddling with a few dials overhead. It’s a testament to how deeply well they know each other that Steve instantly recognizes the gesture is a deflection, born of nerves.

“I don’t recognize these coordinates at all,” Tony insists. He’s got one hand on overhead handles for support, like the rest of them, and the other holding a mapping hologram. “By all topography reports, this is the middle of nowhere, Romanov.”

“Barnes sent them at least three separate times,” she says while adjusting her co-pilot’s head set. The five of them brace against yet another round of turbulence. The snow storm is only getting worse. Dread slithers in Steve’s belly, leaving a slimy trail. “He knows what he’s doing, Tony. Besides…they were in Russian Cyrillic. I don’t think that’s an accident or a memory slip.”

Even fancy quinjet stabilizer engines don’t help with the massive storm clouds they have to pass through. Clint’s gaze is focused, rarely blinking, while he flies them through obsidian shapes in the night.

The snow reminds Steve of another night he lost Bucky. A train screaming through the Alps.

Bruce takes off his glasses. Being shorter than the rest of them, his arm stretches higher to reach the handles. “You want the other guy on this one?”

“No.” Steve swallows. “Much as I don’t like it, they’re both going to need medical. You’re our first responder on that.”

Bruce nods and the team falls into that roiling quiet.

Steve’s hearing isn’t as good as Peter’s, but it’s still strong enough to detect someone’s heart beat faster than the rest. He can’t pinpoint who it belongs to.

Steve frowns at a reflection in the front glass pane.

He walks forward, hand tracking overhead handles, monkey bars style, and bends to place a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “You alright?”

Clint gives a curt nod. “A-okay, Captain.”

Steve sighs. “Clint.”

The archer exchanges a quick look with Natasha. Steve senses they’ve had this conversation already.

“It’s not your fault,” says Nat softly.

Clint takes a deliberate, measured breath. “I didn’t get to see him…I didn’t get to hold my boy, Steve.”

_Of course_. Steve wants to slap himself. Clint was the only one who didn’t reunite with Peter. _I’d feel the same way_.

Clint’s tone aches and it hits Steve harder than a bullet. “You haven’t seen Peter in almost a week, counting your time at the farm.”

After a long beat, Clint nods.

The heartbeat speeds up. Clint eyes someone in his reflection and Steve tracks it over his shoulder.

The heartbeat is Bruce’s. The physicist bites his lower lip. “If you hadn’t followed me…”

Clint’s face hardens. “Stop it. I left to secure the perimeter anyway. Saw you leaving, Bruce. And I’d do it again in a second, because I trust you all with Peter.”

It’s not meant to be an accusation but Steve still feels like he’s been condemned.

Steve steps back.

_You can’t be trusted with him._ Some things are going to change after this, _have_ to change. _We’re breaking international laws as we speak._

A metallic weight settles on Steve’s shoulder. He looks at Tony, who’s somehow moved closer without Steve noticing.

“What did we say about guilt?”

Steve breathes out a smile. “My poison of choice.”

“Mhmm. It’s why I want to punch you sometimes. We’re all the poster children for poor mental health.”

“Peter’s going to shine brighter than us someday,” says Steve. “He already does.”

“That’s the plan. For the last time, Zemo kidnapping Peter was not your fault. Peter made the choice to stay on the helicopter, to protect Barnes.” Tony’s eyes are bright for a moment. “I’m respecting that choice.”

Steve is so tired, running for so long without sleep or proper food, that he doesn’t understand what these words even mean right away. He rubs at the itchy stitches on his forehead with a grimace.

Choice…choice…

The one word Bucky hasn’t known in almost seventy years.

_Bucky. _

Steve whips around to fully meet Tony’s eyes. Tony doesn’t back down at the waves of surprise washing off Steve.

“I handled it wrong in the warehouse,” Tony murmurs, trying to keep this conversation private. “Bucky is a victim here just as much as Peter. Peter saw that before any of us did.”

Steve inhales, unsteady and stuttering and not very leader-like at all. “You…you’re not going to…?”

Tony shifts his head back and forth in a subtle gesture, warmed by the affection on his face. “No. I’m protecting Barnes too. He’s not going into custody, no matter what Everett and the UN want. Barnes can come with us or escape into the wind. It’s _his_ choice, Steve.”

“I thought you saw him as a criminal.”

Tony’s eyes shutter, impossibly sad for reasons Steve doesn’t understand. “I did. Then this bushy haired, elfin teenager with too big a heart gave me some perspective. Bucky’s been used, mind raped. He’s a free man as far as I’m concerned.”

Steve grins, like the very thought of Peter is a bonfire inside his soul. Maybe he can have both after all.

Suddenly his face falls.

Tony’s eyes widen in concern. “Steve? What’s wrong?”

“Tony…there’s something you deserve to know. You need to before we take a step further.”

Tony squints. “You can tell me anything.”

But he can’t.

Steve has known this conversation would come someday. He’s imagined it. Fantasized the worst and best case scenarios. Has been eaten from the inside out carrying it around. It never mattered before, not with Bucky lost.

Now it’s critical.

“Tony, Bucky was a victim but he did some awful things.”

Tony cants his head. “_Hydra_ did some awful things.”

“Well, yes, but Bucky carried them out.”

“Don’t lecture me, Cap. I’ve read those files too.”

The air leaves Steve in a rush. “Not all of them.”

Tony is silent for a long time. His eyes don’t look exactly at Steve, more at a point just over his left shoulder. His brows dip, furrow, then smooth out.

“What is it, Steve?”

“Do you remember that Christmas you were in college? The one we talked about?”

Tony’s eyes widen. “What are you—?”

“Boys?” Natasha swivels her chair around. She loads her gun in a quick snap. “We’re here.”

* * *

“Careful—”

“Ouch!” Electricity crackles up Peter’s hand, making the hair follicles ache. He sucks on his fingers. “Sorry.”

Bucky’s eyebrow quirks. “I don’t know why you’re apologizing to me. I don’t feel anything when this happens.”

_Point taken._

Peter’s fingers are red after a few hours of this. They sit at a wooden spool, acting as the work table, and sit on overturned ammunition crates.

Bucky leans his left elbow on the table, arm splayed to allow Peter better access. His other hand has been working the laces off his boots whenever Zemo turns his back. A caged animal, Zemo paces at the other end of the room.

Zemo has been holding a phone to his ear, gun in the other hand, but hasn’t spoken a word into it.

“I think he’s listening to messages,” Peter whispers. “I can hear a woman’s voice on the other end.”

“What’s she saying?” Bucky’s voice is a hum, almost inaudible. He finally gets one set of laces off. He hides them up his sleeve.

Peter frowns. “I can’t make it out.”

Bucky glances at Peter. “But your hearing is good enough to tell it’s a woman from fifty feet away?”

Peter shrugs. He avoids looking at Bucky by picking up the screw driver again. The shoulder plates were the easy part. He’s fixed all the way down to the man’s wrist joint, tightening, soldering, and using tiny electromagnets in the kit to reactivate Bucky’s arm.

Bucky’s _hand_, however, is proving to be a nightmare.

“These joints are so tiny,” Peter complains. “I wish I had a magnifying glass to work on them.”

“This might help.”

Despite their enhanced senses, both Bucky and Peter twitch in surprise when Zemo appears at their backs. His steps are completely silent.

Zemo holds out a small, rectangular chip.

Peter takes it with reluctance. It looks vaguely familiar yet homemade, like Zemo soldered the thing together himself. “What is it?”

“A reverse EMP chip. Insert it in the back of Sergeant Barnes’ prosthetic hand and it will unify the electrodes.”

Peter does as the man asks, hating that he can’t get up and run even if he wanted to.

Zemo and Bucky watch closely.

“Do I have your permission?” Peter asks at the last minute, when he’s got the chip in tweezers and the hand plates retracted. “I won’t do this if you don’t want me to, Bucky.”

Zemo looks taken aback but says nothing, also waiting to hear Bucky’s answer.

Bucky knuckles Peter’s chin gently. “Of course, kid. I trust you. You’re a genius, right?”

Peter’s glad for something else to focus on, carefully connecting the chip to the correct nodes in Bucky’s central plating. “Not really. I just go to this science school in Midtown.”

“Mr. Parker is being modest,” says Zemo. “I’ve seen his spider suit in action.”

Peter reddens again but this time it is from anger.

Bucky eyes the boy. “Spiderman. Something tells me that’s another long story.”

Peter glares for a moment at Zemo and then sighs. “You have no idea.”

“A story which we don’t have time for.” Zemo doesn’t touch Peter, but he breathes down his neck, getting close behind Peter’s space. Peter tries to lean away. Zemo catches his cheek and pats it. “It’s almost show time, child.”

Just when Bucky opens his mouth to get the attention away from Peter, Zemo steps away.

It bursts out of Peter without warning. “_Why _are you doing this? You’re not a-a terrorist or a thief—you’re a father!”

Zemo freezes. Bucky’s holding his breath.

Zemo walks around so that he’s facing Peter. He goes down into a crouch, gun resting casually on one knee. Even then, he’s still at eye level with Peter.

Peter hasn’t been so shaken since Derrick, even though this man has barely touched him.

“Why?” Peter demands in a whimper. Bucky fumbles for his hand. “They’re coming. They’re coming and you won’t make it out of this facility alive. What was the point of it all?”

Zemo’s eyes are wracked: in one instant furious, in the next so broken that Peter feels light headed. It doesn’t make any sense, but Peter feels he’s looking into Tony’s eyes. They’re so similar.

“Have you ever heard the story of Abraham and Isaac, Peter?”

Peter frowns. “I only went to Sunday school as a kid. Is that the one with the ram in it?”

Zemo’s eyes are intent, pitying. He seems to enjoy just watching Peter rub at his tired eyes. Watch him be a kid. “You’re correct, of course. God asks Abraham to sacrifice his only son, to prove his loyalty and test his heart.”

Peter’s unsteady fidgeting slows down. He stares, open mouthed, at Zemo. Bucky’s face is a storm.

Zemo’s voice swoops down into a hot whisper. “Mr. Parker…I _was _a father.”

He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t need to.

Bucky and Peter watch Zemo rise and stride away.

“Peter? You still with me, bud?”

Peter shakes his head.

“Talk to me, kid. If I’m unnerved you must be off the rails.”

Peter finishes attaching the chip and closes Bucky’s hand plate. Finally finished, at least as good as they can get it in this decrepit Soviet hole.

“Pete?”

Peter clumsily wipes his eyes. Bucky helps him, metal fingers now working in tandem. They’re cool and refreshing on Peter’s flushed skin.

“There was this man, named Derrick.” Peter sniffles. “He…He did bad things…to me.”

Bucky’s eyes ignite, appalled, but he stays silent.

“That’s how I ended up living with the team. They adopted me and-and this kind of feels like that.” Peter slaps the table top. “I can’t move. I have no control.”

Even fixing Bucky’s arm hasn’t made him feel better, although the motions are so familiar. He thinks about Ned in the workshop at school.

He hiccups again without meaning to. “Sorry.”

“You’ve had too much happen to you in so little time. I’m freaking out too you just can’t see it.”

Peter leans on the table to straighten. “Really?”

Bucky hums in his chest. He reaches across the space between them, slow enough that Peter can see him coming and pull back if he doesn’t want the impending touch.

Peter relaxes. This man won’t hurt him. He’s bigger and more muscular than Derrick or Zemo but his body language broadcasts _shelter_.

Flesh fingers make it to Peter’s cheek, knuckles rubbing a little. “I’m freaking out because you gave me something I haven’t felt in over half a century, Peter.”

Peter’s eyes widen. What could he possibly offer someone as powerful as Barnes?

Bucky melts, smile grim but warm. “Homesickness, Peter. You remind me of a life—a brother—I once had. And it frustrates me that someone so innocent is in a situation so bleak, that I’ve been helpless to stop it. I haven’t had…purpose in a long time.”

Peter knows he must make a pathetic sight, but he tries to shuffle off his chair and towards Barnes for a hug.

“Easy, kid.” Bucky pulls him close. “I’ve got you. And thank you for fixing my arm.”

“You deserve better than what you’ve gotten,” Peter breathes into Bucky’s shoulder.

The man doesn’t say anything, content plucking bloody tangles apart in Peter’s hairline. It’s soothing, a dash of normal in a hostage scenario Peter hasn’t quite unpacked.

Bucky’s hand pauses. “May I?”

Peter nods, not trusting his voice.

It’s quick work for Bucky to peel back the Kerlix bandage spanning the buttons around Peter’s tailbone.

“Oh, malysh, oh…”

Peter checks, but Bucky is fully in the present. Whatever he sees is just that bad.

“Infected?” Peter guesses, subdued.

Bucky’s lips pinch. “It’s started to sealed over, so I can’t tell.”

“Bucky?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it looks infected.” Bucky does another full body physical. “The good news is that other than a few bruises and low body temperature, that’s your only major injury. Though I imagine those knuckles hurt.”

Peter shrugs again. “S’okay.”

“It’s really not, but I appreciate your optimism.” Something in Bucky’s face shifts, curious. “You know…I used to love science.”

Peter tugs an errant curl out of his eyes. “We’ll have to go to the Natural History Museum some time. I have a science fair at the end of the month too.”

Bucky throws the bloody bandages under the table and tears off the bottom of his own shirt. He carefully tapes it in folds over Peter’s spine. His hands, while icy, are tender.

“That sounds awesome, Pete. But I might not be around.”

Peter opens his mouth to ask, _Why not?_

But just then a thunderous clang shakes the floor.

“Is that them?” Peter’s dying to jump to his feet. His legs went full rag doll hours ago and never came back ‘online.’ “Are they here?”

He falters when Bucky scowls at the back of the room. The soldier scoops Peter up, bridal style, and marches past the row of tanks. Peter reels.

“This is your plan?” Bucky snaps. “Hide from the Avengers? You really think a ballistics door will stop their wrath?”

Peter finally sees it—Zemo at the tiny window of the bunker. The clang had been him sliding and locking the door.

“No,” says Zemo.

Bucky looks astonished. He kneels down to place Peter a good distance away from the bunker, as though only now realizing he’d taken Peter with him.

“You good?” Bucky squeezes the nape of Peter’s neck with his left hand. “I just want you out of the danger zone in case I have to shoot him.”

Peter nods. “They’ll be here soon enough.”

“They’re here now.” Zemo’s nose wrinkles into an inhuman expression of disgust and…disappointment? “I may not be able to stop them. But this will.”

He holds up a small remote. All it takes is a flick of two green buttons and everything, Peter’s hopes about getting out of this easy, going back to school on Monday, all of it goes to hell.

Bucky’s metal fingers suddenly contract. Peter only gets out a fraction of a cry when Bucky’s hand clamps around his throat.

_The chip! _

Bucky cries out himself, standing to get away on instinct. This only serves to draw Peter up with him, the boy’s feet dangling a hair off the floor. Peter claws at the metal fingers. Bucky sets him down but it’s no use when Peter can’t use his legs.

“Why am I doing this, Mr. Parker?” Zemo snarls. “I am doing this because Stark needs to understand what it feels like to lose his child.” 

The fingers constrict.

“If I can’t have mine, neither can the Avengers.”

Bucky screams enough for the both of them.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Blow it off!” Bucky breaks the electric moment. “Now!”
> 
> Chest rising and falling too fast, Tony’s cheeks puff out. “What? Are you—”
> 
> “It’s powered by the nerve impulses of my own shoulder!” Bucky’s tone sings with urgency. The whites of his eyes shine in the dim. Steve has never seen him this frenzied, not even when they were kids. “Blow my arm off, Stark! Just do it!”

It’s already a warzone by the time they bust out the elevator doors.

Not a warzone Steve is used to—one with bullets and tanks and explosions everywhere. It’s too quiet, for one thing.

There are a few familiar elements, though. Someone roaring like an animal, the clang of fabric on metal, the sound of stuttered breathing.

Someone muttering in German.

And it takes Steve three endless heartbeats to realize he’s trembling. He’s so blindsided by the sight before him that Tony takes charge.

“Romanov, Barton.” Tony retracts his helmet and points to the bunker. “Get that soda can open.”

Nat makes a sharp motion with her chin. “On it.”

They run around the back and disappear from view. Clint tries shooting the viewing window on the way by but it’s no use. Bullets ricochet over their heads.

“Peter!” Steve swallows.

Peter’s eyes are rolling, face already purple. He’s scrabbling at the metal. He sees Steve and reaches a hand out.

Steve is at the boy’s side in an instant. He recognizes the problem in one glance. “I’m here. I’ll lift you up, Pete.”

Steve grips his son under the knees and alleviates the pressure. It works a little. Peter makes horrid choking sounds that Steve knows he’ll take to the grave.

Bucky is responsible for the most noise out of everyone, pounding on the bunker door, shrieking his rage so loudly his voice cracks from the abuse. Bullet wounds along his ribs have started bleeding afresh from exertion.

“You bastard!” He peppers it with Russian insults and expletives Steve is too focused on Peter to listen to. “You’d kill a child instead of facing us, you coward!”

“I could say the same for you!” Zemo hisses at Tony. “You killed my wife, my son! The Avengers are menaces on the world!”

“So that’s your play, huh?” Tony’s literally having a panic attack in front of God and country, but he slips into his best weapon—talking. “All along, this had nothing to do with assassins or government regimes. No. There’s just a petty man who wants to get revenge.”

Tony chatters on but his eyes are glued to the fingers around Peter’s throat. He tugs at them, uses a screwdriver extension to pry at the plates. Nothing works.

And Peter…

Peter’s struggles slow down.

Zemo, strangely, is the one weeping. “I knew if I fought you, you’d just band together. No, I needed to kill you from the inside out. To make you hate each other so completely the Avengers died. I was just going to use that footage—”

Tony follows Zemo’s eyes to a screen in the corner. 

“—But then I heard you had a child.”

Steve runs his hand over Peter’s hair, words running together like paint in a downpour. “I’m so sorry, baby. So sorry! We’re here. We love you, Peter.”

Peter’s eyes have long since closed.

“And how would you feel,” Zemo calls over the growing racket, “if you had to watch someone murder that child—and have your best friend defend that person?”

Tony and Steve lock eyes. Steve feels the truth of how this could go under his skin. It nettles, tiny thorns in Stark’s eyes that build and grow and tear at the flesh of his loyalty.

_Who would you choose? Tony or—_

“Blow it off!” Bucky breaks the electric moment. “Now!”

Chest rising and falling too fast, Tony’s cheeks puff out. “What? Are you—”

“It’s powered by the nerve impulses of my own shoulder!” Bucky’s tone sings with urgency. The whites of his eyes shine in the dim. Steve has never seen him this frenzied, not even when they were kids. “Blow my arm off, Stark! Just do it!”

“Barnes—”

“_NOW_!”

Tony doesn’t wait for a second invitation. Peter’s been without air for over three minutes. His chest isn’t moving, a horrifying contrast to Tony.

The engineer stands back, gauntlet raised. “Ready?”

Steve covers Peter’s lolling head with his shield. “Ready!”

A low chirp whines higher and higher in pitch. Steve winces, lips in Peter’s hair, just as the blast comes. It’s blinding even behind his eyelids.

There’s a sudden give when Bucky’s arm separates from his body. Steve catches Peter on the descent.

The hand sparks around Peter’s throat, zapping the boy’s skin. Steve rushes to pull the now lax fingers away, throwing the metal arm far from Peter. From his son.

_My…our boy._

Steve collects Peter into his arms and rocks, just like they did on that warehouse floor. How had he ever lived without this boy, this perfect puzzle piece in his heart?

“Cap, he’s not breathing!”

_What?_

“Steve! Set him down!”

Natasha is suddenly there. She rips Peter from Steve’s arms and lays him on his back.

“Borderline hypothermic. Onset of fever. No pulse,” she lists off like a sit rep. “No pulse _or _breathing.”

Natasha leans down to breath into Peter’s mouth with a pinch to his nose. The heels of her hands pump up and down on Peter’s sternum. There’s a loud crack and everybody flinches at the sound. But no one stops Natasha. A broken rib is better than dying.

“Come on, Peter. Come on, solnyshko.” Natasha’s ponytail is falling out, hair a cage around her tight face. “Don’t leave us now, not after we’ve come so far.”

Since Tony has started yelling at Zemo, Natasha taps her comm. “Bruce. We need a defibrillator.”

She breathes into him again and sits back, pale.

“Let me.” Bucky kneels beside her, panting from pain and blood loss. “I can’t do chest compressions but I can give him this.”

Bucky leans down and breathes into Peter. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers when he sits back up, watching Natasha push and push. “This is all my fault, malysh.”

“I want to say yes, but it isn’t.” Tony skids to Peter’s side, eyes a nuclear fire on Barnes. “Thank you for protecting him this far.”

Barnes just nods. He watches Peter.

“We’re running out of time.” Tony pulls Peter out from under Natasha’s hands. The boy’s face has gone from magenta to a waxy yellow. “On route, Bruce.”

He engages the boot thrusters, Peter dead weight in his arms, and flies through a smoke stack shaft down the hall.

The three sit back on their heels, listening to the suit fly away to the quinjet. It seems impossible, but the whole ordeal lasted less than five minutes. Everyone feels like they’ve aged ten years in that span.

After the maelstrom, this eerie hush is torture. Steve sags. He tears off his cowl to put both hands over his eyes.

_Dead weight. Dead…_

No. Peter can’t be. Not after they just got him back.

“I didn’t mean to.” Steve and Natasha’s heads whirl at Bucky’s voice. The soldier’s lashes flutter. “I asked him to put the chip in…my fault…”

That’s the most warning they get before Bucky falls forward. Steve drops his shield and lunges to catch his friend around the chest.

It’s just Natasha here and Steve feels safe enough to be vulnerable—to wrap his other arm around Bucky in an embrace.

Without Peter there to see, Bucky’s defenses drop too. Every ounce of tension and fear he’s been holding back seeps out in faint quivering. He buries his stone cold nose in the crook of Steve’s neck. A low keening erupts from his mouth.

“It’s okay. Zemo strangled Peter, not you.” Steve doesn’t understand why Bucky’s shoulder is wet until he realizes he’s crying into it. Shock and the head injury play with his sense of time. “I’m here. You’re safe. I’m only sorry it took us so long.”

“I’m sorry I gave you a concussion.”

Steve snorts a laugh. It dissolves into a sob almost instantly.

Natasha keeps her gun low but loaded to guard them. She stands and shifts her weight forward to the balls of her feet.

It’s a posture Steve knows like an oft-repeated prayer. She’s upset. “Nat?”

She ignores Steve to tap on her comm. Her teeth grind against each other. “Does anyone have eyes on Zemo?”

A pause while she listens to someone’s response. Steve looks to the tank—

Natasha growls. “Because he gave us the slip.”

—Completely empty.

* * *

The snow isn’t at full strength yet. Fat flakes swirl in ballerina pirouettes, the gauze of sleet fluttering over his lashes and tufts of hair surrounding his ears.

Despite having his target in sight, he doesn’t dive in.

The diminutive Zemo sits back against a rock. His cellphone is now on speakerphone. It plays a message from his wife, which, judging by the hopeless mania in his eyes, is about the hundredth time he’s done so.

Clint’s boots make only the slightest rustle in the new snow. “We couldn’t figure out a personal angle, with parts of your file missing. They both died in the battle of Sokovia?”

Zemo doesn’t startle or turn around. He just waits. Then nods, once. Together, he and Clint stare out over the Siberian tundra.

“I’m sorry,” Clint whispers and means it dearly.

“You may shoot me now,” says Zemo, calm as can be. “Have your revenge.”

Clint’s hands fist. “Do you know that we would have forgiven you, if you had come after one of us?”

Zemo finally glances up. Clint channels every iota of helplessness and sorrow he’s felt the last two days.

“If you’d kidnapped me or Tony or one of the others, sure we would have been outraged. But we would’ve understood. Revenge, vigilante justice on the perpetrator, and all that. As much as we hate it, that’s a language we speak.”

Zemo’s jaw firms. He turns his shoulder again to Clint, eyes on the snow at his feet.

“But our _child_, an innocent light who’s done absolutely nothing to you? You deserve whatever hellhole they put you in.”

“You’re a family man,” says Zemo. “You’re just like me.”

Clint’s nostrils flare but he doesn’t deny it.

“You would have done the same thing, if I had dropped a city on your wife and children.” Zemo takes a short breath. “You only stand self righteous because you’re on the winning side!”

One tear falls to the snow, melting it. And Clint’s heart aches. He watches Zemo unravel from the inside out and aches deep inside his core.

Aches for loved ones lost. For families cut off. For innocence stolen, all of the turmoil and hurt that caused this broken man to lash out with such prejudice.

“And now I go to join my family. Goodbye, Agent Barton.”

Zemo’s lips kiss around the barrel of the gun. Clint falls into a fighting stance before Zemo can touch the trigger. In a lightning fast maneuver, Clint pins Zemo’s arms down using his legs, right arm around Zemo’s neck.

With his left fist, he bumps Zemo’s outstretched wrist at a central nerve point. Zemo winces and drops the gun.

Zemo only struggles for a moment before he gives in to the fact he’s overpowered. Clint holds him down easily, heaving more from emotion than effort.

“You’re wrong,” he hisses in Zemo’s ear. “I wouldn’t have killed your child in retaliation for taking mine.”

Zemo gurgles out a bawl and that too is born of pure emotion.

Clint closes his eyes, thinking of Peter’s panicked face. His desperation to get to them. “But you’re right about one thing, Zemo. I _am _planning revenge. Do you want to know what it is?”

Zemo spits at Clint’s boots. “Conveniently killing me on the way to a trial, so you don’t have to take responsibility?”

Fire erupts in Clint’s bones, in the very pockets of his lungs, the space between heartbeats. Not the fire of anger. Not helplessness like on the quinjet.

This is _pride_.

“No, Zemo.” A vein pulses in Clint’s forehead. He breathes through the flames of love washing over him as he thinks of Peter. “Your punishment will be watching that precious boy grow up. You’ll have to see him change the world, every day of his beautiful life, to love others around him and be loved—and to know that not only did you fail in taking that away from him, but you don’t get the privilege of being a part of it.”

Zemo’s enraged posture deflates. He goes very still. It’s an odd, rare brand of stillness and it arrests Clint too for a beat.

Clint taps his ear. “Nat?”

“_You got him?_”

“Yeah, Zemo’s in custody. How’s…how is he, Tash?”

There’s a pause over the comm that encompasses the whole world. It’s hideous not in it’s length but in the way Clint can hear Natasha struggling to rein in her emotions. He hasn’t heard hesitation like this since Coulson died.

Clint bows his head.

“_You’d better come see him for yourself_,” says Natasha, so quiet Clint can barely hear her._ “The defib got his heart started again but…_”

“Tash?”

“_His brain was deprived of oxygen for almost six minutes, Clint_.”

* * *

(_Water races up Peter’s nostrils, down his throat, stinging his eyes. He can’t tell which direction is the surface. Each wave drags him down further into the depths._

_It is silent under the water, the silence of outer space. Of stars._

“Stay with me, Peter!”

_Hadn’t he and Clint just been looking at the stars?_

_CRASH!_

_Another assault flips Peter’s body like a tumbleweed. His hands flail._

“What did you just give him, Bruce?”

_Bruce is here, under the water too?_

“A cocktail version of norepinephrine. It’ll get his blood pressure up. He’s dangerously close to flat lining again as is.”

_There! Sunlight speckles a roof of water above his head. Peter reaches out a hand but it’s no use._

_He sinks further down._)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve listens for Peter’s heart. 
> 
> It’s off kilter, slower than normal, and yet somehow it still fits perfectly. It springs in the space between Bucky’s and his own.
> 
> It strikes Steve suddenly and savagely that this motley group of people might never be whole again. 
> 
> Clint grieves through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, lovely people, whoever is still reading. Your comments have been so heart warming and motivating. 
> 
> Fair warning - things get a little darker before they get better. But they do get better, I promise!

“Get me Cho on the phone!”

“_You’d better have a good explanation for this, Stark_.”

“Oh I do, Everett, dear. Barton is delivering Zemo to you now.”

“_And you?_”

“Flying to a better medical suite than this godforsaken jet.”

* * *

(_“Peter! Can you hear me—Peter!”_

_Down…down…_

I can’t reach_! Peter goes rag doll just like Clint taught him._

_Would Clint be proud of him?_

_“No, Peter! Take my hand!”_)

* * *

“Peter! Keep breathing, come on! _Peter_!”

* * *

Steve has seen a lot of horrifying things in his life. Human rights crimes that would make UN officials swoon.

But this is personal, and he’ll never forget the sight of Bruce lathered in sweat, kneeling over Peter’s body on the gurney while Tony pushes it from behind at a dead run. Natasha parks the quinjet on the roof while the three men run inside the Ukrainian hospital.

Nor the sight of Bruce jabbing an empty ballpoint pen into Peter’s side, just below his armpit.

“Bruce?” Tony gasps. “What are you doing?”

“Natasha broke one of Peter’s ribs. It punctured his lung. His-his chest cavity is filling with air, Tony.”

He only looks up once, to catch Tony’s eye, terrified.

Tony nods his encouragement. “You got this, Bruce. Helen is on her way but I trust you.”

There’s a low pitched hissing and a bizarre smell as Peter’s torso empties of air.

They manage to get inside the ER, nurses waiting and ready, and after that the world is comprised of yelling and machines beeping red, too fast, and there are too many people in too small a medical suite.

Tony vetoes every single doctor trying to get into the room.

Natasha joins the fray, entering at a dead run, and not even Tony’s suit can hold her back. She jumps right over his extended arm. Tony is so shocked he lets her go. She rushes to Peter’s side. They’ve got the boy stabilized, lung and rib already healing themselves. His knuckles won’t require any surgery, sealing over. The head gash isn’t even a concussion.

It’s the lack of oxygen everyone is freaking out about.

“Bruce?” she pants.

“He’s stabilized…for now.”

Bruce calls updates on all these things as they do a top-down check of Peter. At some point they’ve torn away his clothes, leaving him in only boxers and a gown under the thin sheet. A breathing tube snakes down his throat, helping him get enough warm air.

Peter’s ribs are mottled with bruises. He’s too thin on the bed. It hasn’t been very long since this whole circus began, but it’s long enough that Peter has lost weight he can’t afford.

He remains unconscious for all of this, even when Bruce opens his eye lids to check for pupil response. Too slow.

“Steve? Punk, you in there?”

_Punk. No one calls me punk anymore—_

“Steve. Easy, big fella.”

At some point Steve has fallen into a chair beside Bucky’s own bed—Bucky? When did he get here?—and the yelling picks up again when Steve coughs.

“Head injury—”

“Shouldn’t be moving around with that concussion!”

“Ten ccs of morphine!”

“It won’t work—”

“—Metabolism.”

Steve tunes it all out to hold Bucky’s hand in his left and Peter’s in his right. He sits between the two beds and finally breathes.

Hours pass and he refuses to move, even when one stubborn faced nurse tries to _pull_ Steve up from the chair and into a hospital bed.

“I’m not leaving them!” Steve snaps, and that is the end of that.

Bucky speaks to Steve in a tender, low voice, talking on and on until Steve can see straight. Bucky doesn’t even stop when Bruce neutralizes the nerve endings in his busted shoulder, fitting a sleeve around the exposed joint.

Steve ‘wakes’ sometime in the night, when everything quiets.

Bucky’s been given that special cocktail of painkillers, the one in all three of their bodies right now. Steve has an IV snaking out his arm that he doesn’t even remember Bruce administering.

“So he’s your son.”

Steve turns his aching neck at the sound of Bucky’s voice. They lock eyes for a minute. “Yeah. I love Peter more than you can imagine.”

“I can see that.” Bucky’s half lidded gaze softens. “You’re finally with us. Stevie and Buck, back at it again.”

“What, taking down German psychopaths?”

“I meant hanging out in hospitals, but sure.”

The joke is a valiant effort that doesn’t quite get off the ground. Steve fights another wave of tears. Bucky does the last thing Steve ever expects—

He holds his arm out for a hug.

“Get in here, you brat,” he mutters with a grin.

They’ve been in contact numerous times since the ice, but this feels like the first time Steve has truly, both in their right minds, seen his friend in almost a century.

“Buck.”

“_Steve_.”

Steve stands and bends to embrace his friend, arms all the way around Bucky’s back.

Bucky smells different than he did in 1945. His hair is longer. He’s got a scruff of beard that itches Steve’s cheek and one less arm yanking him close. There’s more gunpowder than soap in the threads of his clothes.

Still, this is _home_.

Steve doesn’t cry, like he’s been waiting for. No cathartic breakdown.

But Steve does allow himself to be who he feels inside, his age, his true wants rather than his needs or what other expect of him:

He climbs up on the bed and sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Bucky. Their heartbeats swirl together in syncopated rhythms, a song the world hasn’t heard since WWII.

Steve has rehearsed what he would say. He said some of it on the helicarrier that awful day. He’s thought of profound analogies for the loss and reunion of their friendship, how he’d clear the air if they were ever face to face like this.

“I missed you,” is all Steve whispers. Somehow, it is more than enough.

“I missed you too.” Bucky twines his fingers around Steve’s. “I’m sorry I seem to be in the business of taking peoples’ family away.”

Steve scowls. “Zemo hurt Peter, not you. Tony found that chip…thing. It’s apparently called a remote PLD. It activated your fingers.”

Bucky opens his mouth to argue but just then Clint barges into the room, door bouncing off the wall where he throws it open. He’s wind ruffled from transporting Zemo.

“Where is he?” His eyes widen. “Peter!”

He picks the teen up, back against his chest, and lays in the boy’s bed. Cradles his son close to his heart. Clint curls so tightly over Peter, a human shell, that Steve can barely see his face.

Steve wants to make a comment about the machines and back injuries, that it’s not protocol. Then he sees Bucky’s mournful face while he watches the archer and shuts his mouth.

Clint’s the one who ends up in tears, crying silently all over Peter’s unruly hair. He breathes out a sob.

The world could disappear outside this hospital room and it wouldn’t feel any different. Steve’s entire universe is here.

The three men say nothing, but each has an ear tuned to the higher pitched, artificial breathing of the child that somehow wormed his way into their psyches. It’s irreversible, the bond with this little being, and none of them would have it any other way.

“Peter,” Clint says, broken. “Pete…don’t abandon us like this.”

Only the hiss of the ventilator answers.

“So many of us big tough heroes.” Clint’s voice wavers all over the place. His eyes are pinched, narrow, in anguish. “And none of us could protect our own child. Ahhh, Peter…”

Steve listens for Peter’s heart.

It’s off kilter, slower than normal, and yet somehow it still fits perfectly. It springs in the space between Bucky’s and his own.

It strikes Steve suddenly and savagely that this motley group of people might never be whole again.

Clint grieves through the night.

* * *

“Hey, whoa, you okay?”

_That’s a good question. Am I?_

Bruce turns from the medbay window. From his endless stare at Peter breathing on his own in the bed. Tony really does look concerned, hand out.

“Peter needs me,” says Bruce, hoarse. He taps on the glass.

“That’s an understatement.” Tony sneaks closer. He does it slowly, as if Bruce is a skittish animal. “But when was the last time you slept, big guy?”

“…When we flew him here. On the jet ride from Kyiv to the compound.”

Tony grabs at Bruce’s arm then. He breathes hard. He looks _scared_. “Bruce, that—that was _three days ago_. We rescued Peter four nights ago, remember?”

“Oh.” Bruce blinks fast. “Tony?”

“Bruce?”

“I think I’m going to sit down now.”

‘Sit down’ turns out to be more ‘sags to the floor’ but Bruce takes what he can get. Tony guides him gently down, arm circling his waist.

“I can feel each of your bony ribs, Bruce.” His waspish tone echoes in the hallway. “Let me guess—haven’t been eating either?”

Bruce doesn’t answer. He cradles his head of curls in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. “He won’t wake up, Tony.”

“I know.”

“All his injuries are healed perfectly, even the punctured lung, without fever or complication but he won’t wake _up_.”

Softer, voice cracking, Tony whispers, “I know, Bruce.”

“Helen says it has something to do with his brain being without oxygen for so long.” Bruce swallows. Tears wet Tony’s face but Bruce doubts he even notices. “Peter’s body is in peak physical condition. It doesn’t make sense.”

Tony forgoes the manly distance and shuffles closer on his knees. “It’s okay, Bruce—”

“No! It’s not! What are we doing wrong?” Bruce pounds a fist against his knee. “We’ve done every test in the book! He…H-he won’t wake up.”

There’s a quick whimper from Tony and then the engineer has Bruce’s face cupped in his hands. “You’re doing everything you can. It’s not your fault. Nobody thinks less of you for this.”

Bruce doesn’t even register the fact he’s crying too until he can’t see anymore, vision blurred. His chest bucks. In and out, so much faster than Peter’s.

“He’s got a paper due next week.” Bruce tries to shake off Tony’s hands but his friend is stubborn. “And-and a science fair and…and…”

“I know,” says Tony again.

He closes his eyes and buries them in Bruce’s hair. The chaste kiss shatters the last of Bruce’s defenses. He wails. He hasn’t felt this cut open since Ross’s operating table.

Tony joins him with a choked moan. “I _know_.” 

* * *

After that, Bruce’s eyes sport a hollowed out look.

So do everyone else’s, for that matter. The compound becomes the Avengers’ version of topsy-turvy land. Nothing makes sense the way it’s supposed to.

When they all get home, Natasha disappears and no one sees her for days. Steve sets up camp on the medbay guest cot and doesn’t even leave.

Clint spends his days either on the phone with his wife or helping Bruce with tests.

And Tony…Tony lays on his side next to Peter at night, when even Bucky is asleep in the next bed over, and sings him songs. Steve has gotten used to falling asleep with Tony’s smooth tenor and Johnny Cash filling the room.

Bucky, for his part, though mostly healed, doesn’t want to leave until Peter wakes up. Steve watches him closely when they ask about this.

_It’s his choice whether to stay here. Tony’s too._

Steve realizes what’s happening to them on the fifth day, when they all retrieve their takeout boxes of food that no one really eats—

“We’re going back to the way we were before.” Steve catches Tony’s eye. “We’re falling apart.”

Tony is quiet for a long minute, leaning both hands on the counter top. “Steve…I don’t think we can ever be the way were before, even for the worse. That boy has changed us too much.”

Steve is too stunned to argue.

Natasha makes her first appearance without fanfare or warning. Steve has no idea how she’s been monitoring Peter from whatever hidey hole she’s chosen, but she’s the first to notice when something changes.

She sprints into the kitchen. Bruce and Clint visibly startle.

Tony holds out a carton of lo mein. “Red, finally. Want some—”

None of the men have seen Natasha this undone, with the exception of Clint and even he looks worried. Her hair is everywhere, unwashed, and she’s in the same clothes from the hospital.

Her hand flies in an out-of-character, demonstrative motion. “Peter’s awake!”

They drop their supper on the spot. All five of them bolt down the stairs and Bruce checks vitals on his phone.

“She’s right,” he pants, one hand in Tony’s jacket. “His heart rate is elevated!”

They fly down the hallway in record time. Clint jumps the last flight of stairs three at a time.

Bucky is already half out of his own bed when they burst in. He talks soothingly to Peter, trying to pacify the boy’s darting eyes. They take in the room at a helter-skelter pace. Peter’s breathing is normal but he looks confused.

“Don’t crowd him.” Bruce goes from slouched to authoritative doctor in a millisecond flat. “You can all stay here but no talking at once. He’s overwhelmed.”

Steve totally ignores this advice—throwing an apologetic look at Bruce—and runs a palm over Peter’s forehead.

Bucky holds out a warning hand. “I tried that. He’s not great with touch yet.”

Steve snaps his hand back, seeing the evidence of Bucky’s words in the way Peter gasps at Steve’s caress.

“Hey,” says Bruce, a tender syllable. “Can you look at me for a second, Peter?”

Peter’s glazed eyes do another circuit of the room. Bruce hits a pen on the metal bed rail and Peter finds his face. Bruce studies his pupils, his reaction time when he snaps his fingers.

Steve picks up on Bruce’s frown. “What’s wrong? He’s okay, right?”

_It’s over. Our boy woke up! _Peter’s finally conscious and the world is right, as it should always be.

But Bruce inhales a sharp breath and Steve’s gut turns to ice.

Bucky senses something too. He hums under his breath. “Oh, malysh.”

Peter’s eyes snap to Bucky at the affectionate word. His face is neutral, though his eyes trail over Bucky with fascination.

“Bruce?” asks Tony.

Bucky sighs. “No. No, no, no…”

Bruce looks at him with commiseration. “Can you guys step outside for a second?”

A beat.

Natasha’s voice comes out with a hard kind of venom. “No.”

“Please?”

Clint scoffs. “Double no. Whatever’s going on, just tell us.”

Bucky and Bruce share a strong look. It’s an entirely wordless conversation that’s quite frankly remarkable. Steve distantly wonders when they got close without him noticing.

Bucky clears his throat, wary of everyone’s reaction, and speaks in a clear, firm voice. “Peter, can you tell me how old you are?”

Everyone freezes. Peter blinks at Bucky, at Tony, at the ceiling.

He doesn’t say anything at all.

“Peter?” Steve tries again. “Do you know who we are?”

Peter just stares at Steve. His face doesn’t change an inch, not even the remotest sign of recognition.

“It’s safe to speak,” says Natasha, using that velvety tone reserved for when Peter needs to be reminded he’s not in danger of a man’s wrath, that she’s a woman. “There’s just us. You can admit any pain, okay?”

The teen’s eyes follow Natasha’s lips but he’s completely silent. Completely neutral. This isn’t amnesia, not mutism.

“Is he deaf?” Clint whispers.

Tony shakes his head and taps the wood of a nearby chair to prove his point. Peter’s eyes whip to the sound. But still he doesn’t say anything.

Steve tries to censor the horror in his voice. He doesn’t succeed. “Does he understand _anything_?”

Bruce takes off his glasses and with that signature gesture, Steve’s world shuts down.

“No. No, he doesn’t.”

* * *

(_He chokes on water as his head crests the wave. Success! Peter wants to cheer but he’s too busy coughing._

_“Peter! I’m swimming to get you. Just stay where you are!”_

_Peter tries to find the source of the voice. He can’t see anything but open ocean for miles. No yacht. No other people around._

_“Clint? Where are you?” Peter writhes when a wave crashes over his head again. He splutters. “I don’t know if I can…keep on…treading.”_

_No answer. _

_“Clint? Help! Clint, anybody, please!”_)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Zemo expected it to end in bloodshed, in a brutal sacrifice, because he couldn’t see any other way to make things right.” 
> 
> Bucky rests his hand over top of his friend’s. They’re both trembling. 
> 
> “Steve, there’s always another way.”

He finds her in the ballet studio.

She’s in black leggings and a long, loose knit sweater that’s halfway to her knees. It’s utterly massive, probably something she picked up in her endless travels.

Her hair is down.

Her…her hair is _down_.

She never does ballet with her hair down. Instead of the barre, she’s in the center of the floor, doing plies and adages with supple arm movements and absolutely no eye contact with any mirrors.

This would be the perfect time for a motivational speech. Maybe he can give her the right pep talk to both comfort and encourage her as they move forward with Bruce’s ‘PVS, or, err…Peter’s version of it’ diagnosis. He thinks of what Coulson said to him, the first time he lost a colleague.

What comes out of Clint’s mouth after all that thinking is, “There’s no music in here.”

_Profound, Clint. Spot on. _

Natasha stops and turns to her partner. Her face is smooth and free of any worry creases. No bit lip or make up running from tears. She’s the eye of a devastating storm.

And Clint can see straight through her.

For Natasha, it is always her jaw that gives her away. Her eyes are not the window into her soul, perfectly serene and stony.

No…it is the fine tremors and pulses around her throat and ears that make Clint’s face fall.

“Tasha…”

She turns back around, going into an arabesque. Clint dares to step a few feet further into her aura’s sanctum of pain and fury.

He pulls a battered, older model iPod from his pocket. There's a chip on one side from a stray bullet. It only takes a few seconds to queue his favourite, a song that baffles everyone in his love for it.

Natasha’s eyes flick to his in the mirror, watching how he unravels an equally battered pair of blue ear buds. She twitches at the sound of strings and a trumpet filtering through the haze.

“I can’t do ballet.” Clint shuffles even closer, holding his arms up in a frame. “But would you care for a lousy waltz partner?”

He waits for an elbow in his ribs or the wrinkled nose of rejection.

Instead, Nat’s eyes hood even farther, just a slit of poison green shining through. She swivels fully to face him head on. Her point shoes fall back off their block and flat onto the floor.

And she leans into his embrace. Takes his hand, lets him wrap a warm arm around her back. She’s lithe and sturdy in his arms.

They’ve only danced like this once before and this is so different from undercover ops in Switzerland that Clint feels like he’s on a first date with all the tension in the air.

Nat slips one bud into Clint’s ear and the other in hers.

“_It was fascination, I know, seeing you alone with the moonlight above…_”

There’s no conversation, no whispered words.

Clint and Natasha just sway around the studio. Their breaths mingle in the space between their bodies in an act of intimacy beyond anything physicality can possibly capture. If hers is a little short, unsteady, he says nothing about it.

The Nat King Cole song ends and a Stevie Nicks one begins.

Clint knows what Nat would say anyway, for he understands why Peter’s diagnosis—permanent diagnosis—hits her so hard. He knows about the sterilization and that she never expected to have a child, that she was worried about being a mother because she didn’t know how but Peter made her one of the best Clint’s ever met.

At some point in the fifth song, some thirties ballad he can’t remember the name of, Tash’s head tips to the side. Clint forces himself not to react when her hair makes contact with his left shoulder, resting there at an angle so she can keep looking into his eyes.

Neither of them cry, like Tony and Steve have already done, but Clint does feel his throat close, thick, and Nat’s lips quiver for a fraction of a second.

He remembers the early days after he recruited Nat to SHIELD, how she slept handcuffed to the bed and tried to kill herself with a razor blade.

How he’d held a bandage to her wrist while she screamed _“WHY?”_ in every language she knew.

Clint juxtaposes the two images, this calm and fiercely loving woman with the wild animal of a killer in his mind. It’s surreal.

He hums out a sound of awe, both kinds: the awe of devastation over this blow and the awe of wonder at how far they’ve come.

Nat closes her eyes.

Clint rests his cheek on her head and squeezes her hand. A minute passes…

Natasha squeezes back.

* * *

Steve might _think _he’s the best at faking sleep but the truth is he’s the absolute worst. It’s better now that he doesn’t wheeze in the night, breathing silent, but Bucky knows better.

Still, he gently untangles himself from Steve’s octopus arms and slips off the hospital bed without calling him out on it.

A full, harvest moon shines orange through the slanted blinds. Bucky’s watched Peter for over an hour, how his eyes slide shut and then pop back open.

Now they’re fixed on the moon outside. He seems to enjoy moving his eyes from the window to the rusty tint across the blanket around his legs.

Bucky replays Cho’s words in his head and struggles to match them with Peter—_“Because of the oxygen deprivation to his frontal cortex and how his enhanced healing tried to take care of it, he’s an odd case. All his sensory functions are in tact. It’s just understanding. Think of him like a baby for now, just…without the reactionary effects or noise making apparatus.”_

The words might not make sense to Bucky but seeing Peter completely unresponsive to their questions and faces sure does.

_You’re free to go_, Bucky reminds himself, like Tony had. His wounds are all mostly healed and he’s really just sleeping here to be close to Peter at this point. _You can leave at any time. You’re not a prisoner here._

But Bucky knows he’s just like the rest of them. Peter’s wrapped around his heart for good too. He wishes the boy wasn’t mentally checked out so he can tell him that.

“Hey,” Bucky whispers, soft and coated with warmth. “What’s shakin’, Pete? Can’t sleep?”

Peter follows the sound after a moment. He watches Bucky slide carefully onto his bed, mindful of the monitors.

They lay side by side, staring at each other. Peter’s face still caries that blissfully neutral expression.

For some reason, it breaks Bucky’s heart. He nudges Peter with his stump of a shoulder. “I never got a chance to apologize, Peter. I know Zemo did it, but I still feel like this is my fault.”

Peter blinks at him, long lashes brushing his cheeks.

Bucky’s lips go all wobbly for a second. “You know, I did some reading. That maniac was _wrong_, Peter. He got the story wrong.”

Peter’s eyes are at least staying open. His gaze switches from Bucky’s eyes to his lips and back again.

Bucky twists forward so he can kiss Peter’s forehead, knowing this is a risk with how startled he’s been by touch since he woke up yesterday.

Peter, to his shock, doesn’t even flinch. His limbs stay immobile, as usual, but he blinks openly at Bucky when he pulls away.

Bucky captures the boy’s face with his hand. “God apparently didn’t actually want Abraham to kill his son or whatever. There was a ram caught in a bush when they got to the top of the mountain. Can you believe it?” Bucky breathes out a laugh and isn’t sure why. “Evil psychopath and he couldn’t even get the moral of that story right!”

Peter is observing Bucky’s chest now, how it rises and falls. Bucky’s jaw drops.

_He’s mimicking my breathing_.

They’re perfectly matched now, synchronized breaths flawless in their timing.

“Come on, Peter.” Bucky nuzzles Peter’s cheek with his knuckles. “I know you’re in there. We’re all waiting. It’s okay now. Zemo’s gone.”

But Peter doesn’t move and his eyes grow heavier.

“That’s alright,” Bucky says and knows the tears are evident in his voice. “You just go to sleep, Pete. We’ll be right here when you wake up. I promise.”

Peter takes one last lingering look at Bucky’s face, as if he’s confused by it. He nods off wearing that bemused expression.

Bucky wipes his eyes. “Steve?”

“Yeah,” he whispers back, not even pretending now.

“He’s still your kid.”

A loaded silence follows that.

“Of course he is!” Steve sounds scandalized through his own sniffles. “What makes you say that? You know we wouldn’t abandon him just because he’s like this now! We’ll take care of him for life.”

“I know, but…what if _Peter_ doesn’t know that?”

“Bucky.” There’s a shuffle and then a large hand is on Bucky’s shoulder, Steve leaning over him to look into his face. “I don’t think Peter knows much of anything right now.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to respond to that without embarrassing himself so he keeps his mouth shut. His lips shake in the dark.

Steve’s face does a funny crinkle and then smooths.

Bucky frowns. “What?”

“Just…we went to Sunday school and I don’t remember that story. Did Zemo tell you this stuff? What a creep.”

Bucky nods. “He threatened Peter because his own son died. I think…I think he wanted to even the scales.”

Steve’s face is a blizzard. Icy and murderous. “That’s not even justice or vengeance. Killing Peter was just straight murder. There’s no penance in slaughtering a child.”

Bucky agrees and for a long moment his world comes down to the pulse points of both bodies against him. Their three chests synchronize in perfect harmony.

“That was the moral, I guess.”

“Huh?” Steve perks up from whatever thoughts he’s wandered off in. “There’s a moral to a sheep caught in a bush?”

Bucky nods, suddenly and weirdly sure of this. “Zemo missed the point. God sent a sheep because he was showing that he would _never_ ask Abraham to do something like that, human sacrifice as revenge, which a lot of cultures in that time period did. He’d always provide a better way out. It was his promise to Abraham and whoever read that story.”

“That’s…insightful of you. You always were better in English class than me.”

“Zemo expected it to end in bloodshed, in a brutal sacrifice, because he couldn’t see any other way to make things right.”

Bucky rests his hand over top of his friend’s. They’re both trembling.

“Steve, there’s _always_ another way.”

* * *

It’s a long sigh, dragged straight from the depths of his soul, and it fills the kitchen.

Pepper hears it and kisses him. Tony savours for a moment. Just because he can and he has nothing else to do today. Pepper has explained everything to the SI board; for once, they are understanding.

_Vegetable. Persistent Vegetative State._

The words roll around Tony’s head as he leans back from the embrace. Pepper’s nose is red, proving she’s more affected by all this than she’s let on.

_Peter will never ‘wake’ up._ Peter will grow into a man without speaking or understanding another word again. Tony’s knees threaten to give out and he leans heavily on the counter.

His coffee dinged ages ago but he suddenly doesn’t care.

“Loving someone is dangerous,” he says again. Pepper, leaning against his hip, startles. “It is,” he insists, when he sees her upset scowl.

Pepper’s brow irons out. She runs delicate finger tips down Tony’s back and up again to his neck. “Yes, Tony. It really is.”

Tony blinks. “You agree with me? No defense or _The Notebook _quotes?”

“Of course it’s dangerous.” Pepper walks around to frame both of Tony’s cheeks between her hands. “But let me ask you this—would you, if you could, go back in time and change it so you never met Peter, knowing what would happen?”

Tony answers before the next heartbeat, for he knows it just as well: “No. Not a chance.”

Pepper nods. Tony’s sick of crying, being that it’s all he’s done since Bruce and Helen gave their pronouncement three days ago.

But here he goes again, blubbering into Pepper’s palms. They’re silent tears but they too are scraped from the bottom of Tony’s soul.

He wants to yell, to scream his white hot frustration from the rooftop of this compound. To buy out all the newspapers just so the world will stop caring about stock figures and movies long enough to be upset with him because _my son is gone! My son will never remember who I am!_

Even the sun is shining and though a small thing, it hits like a slap to Tony’s heart.

Has it really only been a month and a half since they swam in the Mediterranean? That the world was their oyster and all was at peace?

Not even Mars feels so far away.

Tony exhales a cosmos of suffering. “I wouldn’t change it because Peter is my _son._”

“He is.” Pepper nods again and she’s bright eyed too. “Even if we’d only known him for this short time…”

“It’s worth it. I’d choose Peter and this pain together than no Peter at all. Every time.”

Pepper opens her mouth, nose _really_ red by now, when Bruce pads into the room. “We’re, uh, going to start…he’s ready.”

Tony sniffs, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. “So soon?”

Bruce nods, both in greeting to Pepper and at Tony’s question. “I think it’s better so he doesn’t lose muscle mass. Just a short walk to the garden and back.”

Pepper steals another kiss. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

To everyone’s surprise, for Tony so rarely does it, he plants a tender kiss on Pepper’s cheek. “I’m holding you to that.”

His gut churns with fear over how this test will go.

When he follows Bruce down to the medbay, it’s clear there’s already a problem. Steve hovers by Peter’s seated profile, slung to the side of the bed, legs not even touching the floor. Steve’s face is a flurry of panic and unease.

He looks up at Tony with eyes too young for his face. “He can’t walk!”

* * *

(_The waves are a _storm_ now. They froth like a spitting cat, throwing dirty foam all over Peter’s purple lips and matted hair. _

_“Please! Help! Hel—”_

_Another wave bobs him down, just for a split second. _

_It’s enough to send Peter into a frenzy. _

Gotta find my parents. Gotta get to the yacht!

_“Go rag doll on me, Pete. Just trust me.”_

_“I can’t! I’ll sink!”_

_“I promise, Pete. Listen to the sound of my voice. Go boneless for me, bud.”_

_“Clint, help!”_

_“I am. Just trust me, Peter…”_)


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey.” Steve’s voice is a caramel murmur. “It’s not your fault.”
> 
> “Yes it is,” Bruce snaps. “I missed something. What use am I if I can’t even help Peter with the most basic things?”
> 
> Tony chuckles, a halfhearted but sincere sound. “What is it with doctors who can’t take their own advice?”

Bruce, by all appearances, has been the quietest so far about Peter’s prognosis. He finds that focusing on the science of Peter’s needs and not the emotional _tsunami_ of this situation is far easier.

Only at night, in the safety of his normal bedroom when the lights are off, do nightmares visit him, insecurities about what he could have done better. He can’t seem to cry like the others, not now that Peter is awake, but his heart does.

Even Hulk moans inside his head.

Bruce is almost relieved when Steve says it. It’s something to fixate on.

“You’ve tried setting him on his feet?” he clarifies.

Steve nods, a hurried one-two that’s dizzying to watch. “Peter’s knees wouldn’t even stay straight, when I held him up. He’s…boneless.”

Everyone glances at Peter out of habit, checking if he’ll complain about this ‘being talked about as if I’m not in the room’ thing like he normally does.

Peter only stares at Steve’s mouth, since he’s the one talking.

Bucky swings his own legs to the side of his bed, frowning at Peter. The soldier is still pale, too slim for his build. But his cheeks go rosy from some emotion Bruce can’t identify.

“When the mercenaries attacked my apartment, one of the bullets swiped Peter’s spine,” says Bucky. “By the time we got to Siberia, his legs went numb sometimes. Well, he used the word ‘offline,’ but he couldn’t feel them, is my point.”

A faint smile trails across Tony’s face.

“We checked his spine multiple times.” Bruce walks up next Steve and eyes Peter’s heart rate monitor, the only one still attached. “We caught the infection-induced fever before it could spread and it was just a deep graze, essentially. Straight across. No muscle damage.”

The four men go quiet. Bruce grits his teeth, angry at himself for missing something. Is this related somehow to Peter’s sensory input? Can he feel his legs but not make them obey commands?

With a patient that can’t understand a thing going on around him, Bruce feels helpless. This is worse than treating a baby—at least they cry and react to facial expressions.

Peter just…exists. If he’s in pain, he’s got no ability to display it.

Bruce doesn’t realize he’s clenching his jaw hard enough to be audible until a hand lands on his shoulder.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice is a caramel murmur. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes it is,” Bruce snaps. “I missed something. What use am I if I can’t even help Peter with the most basic things?”

Tony chuckles, a halfhearted but sincere sound. “What is it with doctors who can’t take their own advice?”

_Own advice? What is he…?_

Bruce flushes when he figures it out and Steve smiles a bit. “You said it me then so this is me returning the favour: it’s not your fault, Bruce. Take your time and we’ll figure this out. Together.”

Tony fiddles with something in the corner. “For now, I have a better solution than carrying Peter around like a chia pet.”

“A wheelchair, of course.” Bruce unclips the heart rate monitor from Peter’s index and checks that he has enough warm clothing on. Someone—probably Steve—has already dressed him in a wool pullover and sweatpants. “Steve, just make sure to watch for if his lips start to turn blue or he swallows a lot. That one means he’s thirsty…Steve?”

Bruce is confused but he doesn’t fight it when Steve takes his hands and places them on the chair handles.

Tony’s eyes, as he picks Peter up, are soft. Both on his son and when they come to rest on Bruce.

“Your turn, Bruce.” he says. He sets Peter in the chair, adjusting his feet so they’re at a natural angle, and tucks a blanket around his legs. “I know this is rich coming from me, but don’t keep avoiding what you need.”

Bruce, eyes wide, pushes up his glasses for an excuse to fidget. “What do you mean, what I need? I’ve seen Peter more than anyone, every day for hours with testing and—”

“We’re not talking about testing.” Steve only gets away with the interruption because he’s _Steve_ and he never does it, ever. “Just…turn off your science brain for a while. Be Bruce, not his doctor.”

“Very funny,” Bruce mutters.

_As if that’s even possible_. Still, he’s uneasy.

Tony mirrors Steve when he gently takes Bruce’s hands—_when did I take them off?_—and wraps them back around the handles.

“Get out of here, Bruce. Go show our kid the freaky bonsai garden Rhodey planted. It’s ridiculous.”

So Bruce does.

He pushes the wheelchair down the hall, riding the elevator to the main lobby. It’s a Friday and there aren’t even any groundskeepers around this morning. The sun is at full peak now, warm for ten o’clock on a September day.

Peter’s got slippers on his feet, where they rest on the foot stops. They’re Hello Kitty, with rainbow sparkles and cupcakes.

Bruce leans over the chair a bit so he can catch Peter’s eye. “Tony’s silly, isn’t he?”

Peter says nothing, of course, but like always he watches Bruce’s lips and eyes while he talks. Bruce brushes the too-long curls out of Peter’s face. Peter’s lashes flutter at the touch, and his muscles relax the longer Bruce does it.

“You’re alright, Peter,” he whispers, close to Peter’s ear. “We’re not leaving you.”

Finally, Bruce wheels him out the glass doors and through the pair of cherry blossom trees to the garden.

Bruce stops dead.

“This…is a bit ridiculous, actually.”

It’s like he and Peter have become giants in an ant-run world. Tiny trees circle a baseball diamond and a bowl shaped building. It takes Bruce an embarrassingly long time to realize he’s looking at a scale, plant-shaped replica of Central Park.

Bruce is so astounded by the miniature _everything_ that he laughs.

And is so startled by that laugh that he does it again.

Bruce doesn’t do loud guffaws or giggles like Clint indulges in sometimes. Bruce does the slow, rolling wave of laughter that builds for a breathless moment before smoothly going back to a husky series of barks that make Bruce’s glasses fog.

He takes them off, tucking them in his pocket, and rolls Peter over to a stone bench beside the Central Park ‘fountains.’ When he sits down and looks over at Peter, the boy’s eyes are a hair wider than normal.

He seems hypnotized by Bruce’s mirth.

“I’m okay, Peter,” Bruce says, just in case the noises can be misconstrued as crying. “Sometimes stress just builds, you know? Gotta let it out.”

The garden is fenced in by thorny bushes, which Bruce finds odd. Oak tress overhang those and drop acorns into Rhodey’s masterpiece.

When a stray pine cone tumbles across Shakespeare garden, Bruce picks it up and turns it over in his hands.

“Look, Peter. The scale pattern on this is a Fibonacci sequence. You were struggling with some math principles one time and we talked about this.” Bruce musses the teen’s hair. He smiles, broad and easy. “You picked it up so fast. You’re smarter than I ever was at your age.”

Peter’s eyes stray to a chickadee pecking at the bonsai flowers.

Bruce isn’t normally a tactile person, hasn’t trusted himself to be in a long time, but here alone with Peter he feels no need to keep up the pretense.

He takes Peter’s lax fingers in his hand and squeezes.

“I know how it feels to be trapped inside your own body, Peter.” Bruce wrestles back the demons rearing in his mind’s eye. “Screaming, flailing to be in control. If you’re in there, doing that…I hear you, Peter. I’ll always hear you.”

Peter looks down at their hands, then back to the bird.

Bruce leans his head on Peter’s, their curls tangling together in miasmic whorls. “Even if you’re not, even if there’s none of you left in there and you’ll be like this for the rest of your life—I still love you, Peter. We’ll be well protected goldfish together.”

Bruce closes his eyes, fixated now on the sound of Peter’s elfin breaths. “You’re still the brightest light I’ve ever met.”

And then there is the gauzy blanket of silence.

But that’s okay. Bruce loves silence more than anyone else on the team, can read all the hidden messages that come only with the lack of words and the profundity of body language.

Bruce and Peter are still.

The chickadee throws pink petals with his beak.

More pine cones and Fibonacci sequences drop around their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just needed some rest, some fluff before the final climax commences.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve thinks of himself at sixteen—scrawny, ill…angry. 
> 
> _So_ angry. 
> 
> He’d been ready to fight the world if it looked at him the wrong way. And it always did.  
Peter is nothing like Steve and yet somehow a carbon copy all at once.

“I can’t believe we left it this long,” Bucky mutters.

Steve rolls his eyes but doesn’t hide his amusement either. “I can’t believe we let him go _outside_ this morning before we did this. I should’ve done it then.”

Both men’s eyes shift to Peter, sitting in his wheelchair by the window. They call it his favourite spot but of course they can’t be sure. That’s just where his eyes land eighty percent of the time.

They’re alone this evening. Bruce had kept Peter out there almost until lunch time before Tony found them.

Now the two men are off studying charts of Peter’s spine and Natasha and Clint are debriefing in Washington, to answer for their breach of contract.

The sky grows dark outside, silhouetted against Peter’s pale features and the hands resting listlessly in his lap.

Steve’s chest clenches at how small he looks.

“Guess it’s down to me,” he says, because if he follows that line of thinking any further, he’ll be of no use to anyone. “What do you think, Peter? Want to get some of that grime off?”

Peter’s eyes remain out the window, not responding to the use of his name.

Steve’s face falls, though this has happened hundreds of times already. It’s just as disturbing as when it first occurred.

“Hey, Eeyore.” Bucky throws a mini pretzel at Steve to get his attention. “Stop moping and give the kid a bath already.”

“Right.” Steve blinks. Shakes himself. “Right, I can do that.”

There’s a huge en-suite upstairs in Peter’s room but Steve fills the tub in the medical suite bathroom. He runs his hand through the water in a figure eight pattern. Faint steam curls off the top.

Steve then glances at the doorway. It’s small, not even wide enough for Peter’s wheelchair. That doesn’t end up being a problem.

Steve crouches in front of Peter. “Ready, bud?”

Peter’s eyes shift from the window to Steve’s extended arms. Steve goes slow, his left forearm sliding under Peter’s knees and the right around his back. His arm is so much longer than Peter’s shoulders that he can notch the right side of Peter’s ribs in his elbow and pat Peter’s belly with his hand.

He lifts him like Tony did earlier, a graceful, smooth motion as Peter’s already weak right now and probably dizzy, even if he can’t voice this.

Steve checks, but Peter’s eyes remain in the middle distance.

It’s the first time Steve has held the boy since the bunker, since their lives became a quiet kind of purgatory, a stasis worse than any torture. He savours the warm weight and the powdered smell of the teen’s hair. Steve doesn’t realize he’s swaying in a dance like pattern until Bucky throws him a fond look.

“You’re good with him,” he notes, muted.

Steve’s eyes flare with something knowing. “Takes one to know one. It’s been seventy years but you’re still a pro.”

“Pfft. Get lost.”

Steve takes his time walking to the bathroom. Peter is woefully light, made worse by the fact they’ve had to feed him through a stomach pump since he woke up. His ribs press against Steve’s diaphragm, then relax as he exhales, like prison bars.

“Here we go, Peter. Time to get you clean.”

Steve kneels and sets Peter down on the toilet lid. “Helen sponged you down but it’s not quite the same thing, huh? It’s just you and me for tonight so I stole some of Tony’s fancy stuff.”

Steve tries out a wink on Peter, but he doesn’t react.

“The water’s still pretty warm, Frodo.”

Steve hesitates. Sensations are the only thing Peter is aware of right now. It could help or it could upset in this context. 

He takes Peter’s fingers and guides them down into the tub. The instant Peter’s skin touches the steaming water, he blinks. His other limbs twitch.

“See? Not so bad.”

Steve smiles, love seeping from his gaze, and gently tugs Peter’s shirt over his head. He strips him down of all but his boxers, wanting Peter to have some dignity, especially considering he can’t speak for himself.

He tapes a bag over the pump in Peter’s stomach.

“In we go, that’s it.” Steve keeps up a steady chatter while lowering Peter into the water. He rests Peter’s head on an inflatable bath pillow suctioned to the slope at the head of the bathtub. “I’m going to wash your hair first, okay? That way it has time to air dry while we do the rest.”

There’s a plastic cup on the side of the tub and Steve uses it to rinse Peter’s hair rather than dunking him under. Steve lathers the shampoo in his hands and sets them onto Peter’s damp hair.

And then…then Steve goes very quiet. A perfect hush falls over the bathroom, the world.

He carefully works the shampoo through Peter’s wavy locks, affection swirling inside his gut at the way strands curl around the bubbles. Peter watches suds drain into the water. His normally bright eyes are dull but Steve takes what he can get.

Steve thinks of the night he came home from the Middle East to find Peter asleep in his bed, the first time he’d sought refuge in one of their rooms at night.

His hands of the past and his hands of the present marry in perfect synchronization as he massages Peter’s scalp.

_He’s so tiny._ Steve can hold more than half of Peter’s head in one hand. He has to use his fingertips or his palm would cover Peter’s eyes. _How did something so small get entrusted to someone so big?_

Steve thinks of himself at sixteen—scrawny, ill…angry.

_So _angry.

He’d been ready to fight the world if it looked at him the wrong way. And it always did.

Peter is nothing like Steve and yet somehow a carbon copy all at once.

Peter buys them flowers just because. He aced a science quiz and the first thing he did was call Tony to thank him for the study help. He cries at Hallmark commercials, keeps dog treats in his backpack for any they meet in the Park.

Or…he used to.

_He’ll never do any of that again. We lost our boy the moment I dropped him off at school. _

Steve fights it, he really does.

“You know what, Peter?” Steve’s eyes get shiny while he scrubs the body wash along Peter’s arms. “I miss you. You’re still you but I miss your hugs. And the way you make Tony and Nat soft. Your salsa—amazing salsa. The weird board games you teach me. Your…your smile.”

Steve has to stop when his throat tightens.

He’s washed all the way to Peter’s knees but he pauses, head bowed. This is too much all of a sudden. This isn’t normal. This isn’t the way life is supposed to go.

Peter watches Steve with that blank expression.

There’s a bit of soap caught in his eyelashes and it paints his skin when he blinks. Overhead light reflects off the suds in prismatic, miniature rainbows. Always that slow blinking…

His body isn’t that dirty but Steve washes even Peter’s feet, just to be sure. He’s tender and cautious with the thin limbs. Scars have begun to form along Peter’s neck and wrists, where the metal bit into his skin. They’ll fade with time but they’re horrible to fathom now.

Steve’s tears plink off the water, the only sound for a long time.

Then there comes a strange pressure, no heavier than an angel wing, along the bulb of Steve’s nose. He ignores it at first, trying desperately to see through the blur of an oncoming weeping fit.

Steve is angry again. An old, leathery anger that doesn’t respect time or what size he is now.

Angry at himself, angry at the useless tears, angry that they let Peter be taken a second time—while they were all in the _same room_. Angry that life won’t let him have anything without it being taken away. That everyone he loves is lost, eventually.

Angry for daring to have hope.

Life made the choice for him, wouldn’t let him have Bucky and Peter. It took away one and gave him another without so much as a chance to defend the right to have both. Maybe he doesn’t deserve such a privilege after all.

The pressure increases, just a touch.

Steve startles. “Peter?”

For that’s what it is—the fingers of Peter’s right hand fluttering over Steve’s nose, just like the day this all went to hell.

Steve stares at his son, mesmerized. No hypnotist has the power of this twiggy boy, eyes absent but hand sure where it explores Steve’s face, like Peter is trying to figure it out. He taps on Steve’s cheek with his palm, then his chest, hand imitating a pumping heart beat.

Steve lets out a hoarse sound, not quite a laugh but filled with wonder. Warmth explodes through him.

“That’s me, Pete, my heart. At least we know your super senses are still intact.” He laughs, more tears raining down on Peter’s face, and kisses the boy’s forehead. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

It’s a poignant moment—right up until Peter’s mouth begins to move. His eyes sharpen, distressed.

He flails in the water. “_H…H…el…p._”

And then Steve _panics_.

“Bucky, get in here! I think he’s having a seizure!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like...strap _in_, y'all. Here we go.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Even Bucky is at ease, which is surprising—_
> 
> Wait, why is Bucky here? That’s not how this day went. His memory is wrong…he didn’t even meet Bucky until…until…
> 
> “Get him out of the water, Buck. Quick! He’ll choke!”

'With a vigilant heart  
I'll push into the dark  
And I'll learn to breathe deep  
And make peace with the stars.'

"Six" ~ Sleeping At Last

_“He…Help!”_

_An iron bar cinches around Peter’s waist, which doesn’t seem very helpful if he’s drowning. _

_Peter looks down and realizes it’s Clint’s arm. Clint swims backwards, backstroking with his free hand towards the yacht. _

_“I’ve got you. You’re alright, Pete.”_

_Peter coughs and coughs and then coughs some more for good measure, relieved to have his head fully above water. He goes completely limp in Clint’s arm, head back against Clint’s shoulder. His forehead knocks the man’s chin. _

_“Good job, champ. Just like I taught you. You’re going to be okay. The storm’s passing even now.”_

_“Clint?”_

_“That’s me. I’m right here.”_

The water feels warm…too warm even for the Mediterranean.

_“Clint?”_

_“Shshsh. It’s okay—”_

_“Where are we?”_

_He can _feel _Clint stiffen at that one. “On vacation, bud, remember?”_

_Peter thinks this over. _

_Suddenly there are huge hands under his legs and around his back and patting at his hair with stricken voices flurrying over head. _

_All five of the other Avengers reach down with one mind to scoop Peter out of the water and onto the yacht. He collapses on the deck and spits up what feels like the whole ocean. The hands pick up speed, patting at his back and taking his pulse._

_They saw him almost drown. So much for keeping that little fact hidden._

_“Oh,” says Peter. _

_Tony is shaking. “Yeah, _oh_! Why didn’t you tell us you couldn’t swim?”_

_“I…uh…I…didn’t want to ruin your vacation plans. Wanted to impress you.”_

_More stricken voices. _

_Peter doesn’t realize he’s shivering enough to rival a Chihuahua until Thor swaddles him in a fleece throw and picks him up bridal style. Jane rubs a towel over Peter’s hair. Peter soaks up the demigod’s radiator-like warmth. _

_There are too many adults scolding him and asking about symptoms—does he feel short of breath?—and Pepper’s crying and Clint is laughing and applauding his swimming while Steve towels him off and they’re arguing about who should be driving the boat and keeping secrets about not being able to _freaking swim_, and Clint, how could you not tell us this? And…and…_

_And Peter has never felt so loved in the entirety of his life._

_It’s a happy jumble of noise, despite the exaggerated outrage. It’s awful. It’s messy. It’s, well, it’s Peter’s new normal. _

_He snuggles against Thor’s sweater and sleepily eyes all the faces in a circle around him. _

_His voice is hoarse from coughing but he musters his strength. “Love you guys. So much.”_

_They all stop. _

_Natasha swats Clint upside the head and then kisses Peter’s hand, reaching for her. “Love you too. I’m glad you’re okay.”_

_“You scared us!” Bruce adds, hands on his hips. _

_“Thank you for this chance to get away from it all.”_

_Tony melts. “You deserve it, kid, after everything that’s happened this year.”_

_There are echoes in agreement of this sentiment. Peter shivers and smiles and thinks this is what family is supposed to feel like. _

_They all relax after that, relieved laughter filling the deck. Tony forces Clint to promise to never let Peter in the water without them present again…with a quiet thank you to him, of course. Clint shakes Tony’s hand with a grin. _

_Even Bucky is at ease, which is surprising—_

Wait, why is Bucky here? That’s not how this day went. His memory is wrong…he didn’t even meet Bucky until…until…

“Get him out of the water, Buck. Quick! He’ll choke!”

Bucky doesn’t look relaxed now. He’s frowning, lips tight. His eyes look worried. Only three hands pull and tug this time.

_“Clint?” Peter looks around but everything’s fuzzy. “Clint, the water is too hot.”_

_Why am I back in the water? Didn’t Clint just get me out?_

“On the floor, Steve. Here is good.”

“Should I—?”

“Hold his head.”

_“We love you too, Peter. We wanted this vacation to be relaxing for you.” Steve smiles. “I hope this hasn’t made you too afraid of the water.”_

Steve’s face is a mess of tears. “Breathe with me, Peter.”

Tears?

_Peter chuckles. “Not a chance. Before the wind picked up I was actually swimming!”_

_Clint stands to noogie his hair. “You sure were. Your front crawl is really coming along.”_

_Peter laughs again, wincing when it turns into a cough. It’s deep, chest tearing, but Peter feels made new. His face turns red for a moment. _

_Steve rubs his back. “Just breathe through it.”_

“Just breathe through it. Can you hear me, Pete? Easy, easy!”

“He’s really convulsing.”

“I know. Friday, call Bruce.”

“_Already done, Captain._”

_“Peter, wanna get warmed up with some hot chocolate—”_

“Squeeze my hand if you can hear me—”

_“Storm’s passing—”_

“It’s getting worse—”

_“Swimming—”_

“Shaking—”

_“Peter.”_

“Peter!”

Peter blinks and the two scenes shatter together so harshly that he gasps.

Suddenly, and for one crystalline moment, Peter is fully in the present. He stares up at the sliver of bathroom ceiling he can see between Bucky and Steve’s heads. They’re both bent over where he thrashes on the tile.

Peter tries to reach Steve’s face but his hand barely cooperates, a haze of frenetic motion he can’t fully control.

Tears. There shouldn’t be tears, never on Steve.

“S…St…”

Steve jolts and his eyes lock onto Peter’s. It’s the most electric moment Peter has ever experienced. Another tear falls on Peter’s cheek but he doesn’t feel it. “Peter? Are you…are you actually—”

“_Steve_.”

Peter looks to Bucky before he realizes that _he _said it.

Bucky darts forward, catching Peter’s writhing face in his hand. Steve puts his hand on the other cheek so the two men frame Peter’s face.

Bucky tries to speak, licks his lips, and has to start again. His eyes, in comparison to the frozen and shocked ones of Steve, are darting. “Peter, I’m going to say this really slowly. Can you…understand us?”

Peter wonders if he’s been strapped to a rock drill, violently trembling and floundering, but he manages to blink up at Bucky.

“B…Buck?”

“Yeah, kid.” Bucky laughs and now _he’s_ crying. “Good to see you.”

Peter doesn’t feel like he’s good. He feels like he’s drowning all over again, struggling, _fighting _to get to the surface. Every second of present time is a millennium. His body might as well belong to someone else for how little it cooperates and sends him sensory signals at weird, delayed times.

He only just now realizes Steve is squeezing his hand in a death grip.

It hurts.

Pain! He’s in pain!

Peter wants to cheer, to shoot confetti from the rooftops, because he’s so excited to feel something that isn’t utter _nothing_. These receptor signals are real, not memory. He’s still fighting to get air yet there’s no water in his lungs.

It’s all real!

But then Peter realizes…he’s in _pain_. Agony.

It’s all down Peter’s back and he arches off the floor, eyes rolling back into his skull. His world again becomes a mess of shouting. Most of it’s his.

His last thought is wishing this wasn’t goodbye.

_I’m sorry, Steve._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole story has been done for over a year I'm just editing the trash passages so it's cleaner and sizzlin' for you all.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Does this mean Peter has a hope of getting through this?” Steve asks.
> 
> _Hope_.
> 
> Tony stops mid sentence to smile at them. “Yeah. _Yeah_! it means we might at least be able to guarantee that Peter lives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I spent literal hours researching brain surgery for this chapter and have exhaustive first responder training, thanks to years of working with horses and children (*Buzz Lightyear voice* concussion checks...concussion checks everywhere...) we're dealing with super humans here. 
> 
> It's a hodge podge of real medical conditions layered with some not-so-real medical conditions - that's the joy of storytelling! 
> 
> TLDR: Sorry for any dubious medical content. I did my best.

“I’ve gone over the test results three times.” Bruce clears his throat, clearly aware of all the eyes on him. “It wasn’t a seizure.”

“What?” Steve, elbows on the back of the chair he has flipped around, is gobsmacked. “I was there, Bruce. That was a seizure. His limbs were tensing and jerking and he could barely get his jaw open.”

The others are strangely quiet. They’ve all convened around the kitchen table and bowls of Pepper’s taco salad. Nobody’s touched it yet except for Clint, flicking kidney beans into his mouth.

It’s been three hours since the episode but Steve is still ringing with the shock wave of it. He’s pale and his teeth chatter sometimes.

Bruce hands him a mug of oolong and Steve thanks him with a weak smile.

Bucky has actually joined them for this meeting, the first time he’s left the medbay at all. He straightens from his place at Steve’s side. “Stevie had a seizure once, when he was really little. Caused by a fever that got too high.”

Tony’s brow quirks up. “Not that I don’t love juicy tidbits from our past lives—and you’ll have to tell me more, later—but what does that have to do with Peter?”

Nat interrupts before Bucky can answer. “You said he was aware?”

“I swear,” says Steve. “He looked right at me. His eyes were almost too conscious.”

“He said both our names.” Bucky glances around the room. “He was…in pain. He called out for help.”

Bruce rubs at scruff he hasn’t had time to shave. “That’s what makes me think it wasn’t a seizure.”

Bucky nods. “This looked…different from a normal one. It’s like his limbs were…” Bucky frowns, searching for the word he wants. He mutters something in a language Steve doesn’t recognize.

Natasha nods. “Firing all at once. Barnes is right. I watched the footage Friday took when it started.”

Bucky makes a face. “The robot records us in the bathroom?”

“Only when there’s an emergency,” Tony clarifies, looking like he’s trying not to laugh. “Otherwise, complete privacy.”

Steve sighs. “Can’t people having seizures be in pain too?”

“Sure,” says Bruce. “This, however, was obviously concentrated to his spine. That’s a huge red flag, Steve.”

“Of course, but…”

“Do you _want_ it to be a seizure?”

Steve bristles at Tony’s question. “All I’m saying is that seizures are treatable. This—” He waves a hand at the table’s hologram. “—Might not be. I want to hang on to the thread of hope that we can help Peter.”

“We are going to help him,” says Clint, his first contribution to this discussion. “What do you think it was, Bruce?”

Bruce fiddles with Peter’s chart. “That’s the problem. I don’t have a name for this and therefore no clear therapy plan.”

Tony reads something in Bruce’s face. “What’s the good news?”

“The good news is that I did a brain scan and I at least know what happened, though I can’t tell you why. I’ve never seen this phenomenon before.”

“Shoot, doc.” Bruce curls his shoulder and, softer, Clint says, “It’s okay, Bruce. Whatever it is, you can tell us.”

“Here’s his brain scan when we first brought Peter home.” Bruce swipes a neural map onto the hologram. Nat spins it around, searching the scant brain activity to no avail. “Here’s two hours ago.”

The second copy of Peter’s brain, outlined in blue, has tiny white dots running along the front. Though subtle, it’s enough of a contrast to the one next to it.

Tony audibly inhales. “It almost looks like…”

“When someone dreams,” Bruce finishes. “I agree. But it’s not the synaptic activity between the two that caught my eye. Look at the veins, the blood vessels.”

Steve is confused, very much over his head here, but even he sees a difference.

Natasha stands, lips parted. “Is that…correct me if I’m wrong here, but are you telling us something was depriving his brain of full nerve capacity before now?”

Bruce nods, breathless even though he’s barely moved. “Something sent a sudden rush of synaptic information to his cranium and it triggered his parasympathetic nervous system.”

Clint and Steve share a familiar look.

Tony sees and, for once, is kind about it. “You know what hydroplaning is, right?”

“It’s no fun, I know that.” Clint shrugs. “When your car stops responding to commands because it’s skidding on water deeper than the tires. What’s your point?”

“Then you know that any command you give the steering system while hydroplaning, though delayed, will actually happen once your tires hit pavement.”

Steve’s pulse picks up. “Peter’s brain came back online and started firing all the commands it couldn’t while he was…vegetative.”

Tony points a finger gun at him. “Basically. That’s a crude analogy but it applies here.”

“I don’t know why,” Bruce repeats, “And I’m working on it. But that…dream he had, for lack of a better term, triggered something physical. All the nerve endings lit up at once like when a computer reboots.”

“He’s in there somewhere.” Natasha’s voice is the quietest yet. “Today proved that his mind wasn’t erased by the oxygen deprivation.”

Bucky’s eyes drop. “Have I apologized for that yet?”

“Not your fault.” The four of them say it in a droning unison. Tony pipes over them with a, “only about a thousand times, yeah.”

Bruce squirms and Clint frowns. “Bruce?”

“I don’t want to say this, but you deserve to know…what you saw tonight might have been a brain surge.”

Steve doesn’t understand but Tony must. The man goes stiff all over, jaw hardening. He locks flaming eyes on Bruce, brows drawn low.

“Absolutely not.”

Bruce sighs. “Tony—”

“That can’t have been a brain surge.”

“It fits all the symptoms.”

“There’s no _way_ that was a brain surge.”

Bruce’s eyes ignite with a rare fire of his own. He inhales and uncurls to his full height. “Why? Just because you don’t want it to be? That’s not what Peter needs right now.”

For once in his life, Tony is speechless.

Natasha resumes her seat and glances between the two men. She keeps her voice at that even cadence reserved for Bruce. “Since no one else will ask—what’s a brain surge, Bruce?”

Bruce’s anger snuffs as quickly as it came. He deflates, looking tired. “It’s the…the lighting up, so to speak, of the brain right before it…”

Tony again meets Bruce’s eyes but this time they’re both pained.

“Right before it dies,” Tony murmurs.

There’s a vile moment of silence. Everyone, though perfectly frozen, rocks back from the impact. Steve feels like he’s just taken a few rounds to the throat.

“But…he’s still alive.” Bucky’s small voice startles them back to the present. “He didn’t die. He’s still living and breathing down there.”

“Sergeant Barnes.” Bruce lays a gentle hand on Bucky’s arm. “We’re talking about _brain_ dead, not physically dead. He can’t even breathe for himself right now; I have him on a ventilator. And he hasn’t regained consciousness since the episode.”

Bucky’s face falls. Steve pats his other, flesh hand, under the table where it rests on his knee. Bucky flips his hand around so it can clasp Steve’s. Steve is thrilled to feel a real pulse point, the reminder that they’ve both somehow made it out alive this time, beaten the odds.

“_Dr. Banner?_”

Steve startles for a second time, at Friday’s urgent tone.

Tony answers. “What up, Fri?”

“_I finished analyzing that anomalous patch along Mr. Parker’s spinal column that Dr. Banner noticed._”

Steve throws a look at Bruce, impressed. “And?”

“_The shape is in fact a shard of bone. It’s free-floating and putting too much pressure on the nerves of his spine, probably caused by the bullet._”

Tony stands, and he wears that expression of intense anticipation and understanding they’ve come to know well. Steve’s heart picks up again, reacting to the galloping sound of Tony’s.

“Friday,” Tony starts. “Are you telling me that the loose bone chip is sitting…”

“_It’s cutting off nerve function, yes, to the L1 region of his lumbar, and the damage to his neck—_”

Bucky winces.

“_—Seems to have pinched his cranial nerves_.”

Bruce lights up at once, eyes wide and mouth almost, _almost _a smile.

“Bruce?” Clint asks again. “Does this mean that if we remove the bone chip sitting on his nerves that it will restore sensation to his legs and mental function?”

Bruce looks to Tony. “How fast can we get Cho here?”

“Surgery?”

“It’s his only option, Tony.”

Clint knocks on the table top. “Hellooooo? Earth to the smarty pants club. Can all this be reversed?”

“Maybe not,” says Bruce. “But we have to try. At the very least, we can reattach some of the severed areas near his cranium. I can’t believe that damage went unnoticed.”

“_It’s a perfunctory reaction, Doctor_,” Friday assures Bruce. “_Most trained professionals fail to notice this issue in eighty-eight percent of cases._”

Bruce nods but Steve can tell he’s stopped listening.

Steve, in turn, tunes out most of the medical jargon slinging between Tony and Bruce. He fixates on one aspect of this whole conversations and feels like he’s breathing oxygen for the first time in days. His hand positively strangles Bucky’s now but the man looks just as excited.

“Does this mean Peter has a hope of getting through this?” Steve asks.

_Hope._

Tony stops mid sentence to smile at them. “Yeah. _Yeah_! it means we might at least be able to guarantee that Peter lives.”

What happens next even Steve could never have predicted—

Two tears slide in rapid succession down Bucky’s cheeks. He swats them away but more just take their place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention my huge soft spot for doctor!Bruce?


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve goes still too. His eyes remain on the knife. “What’s that?”
> 
> “That in love you always give more than you get. It’s always somewhat of a one way street. He said it was still worth it. Every time.” Nat too looks down at the blade. “I’m not so sure, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end, folks!

“For once I’m not happy Peter has this super healing factor.”

Steve laughs as Tony jerks awake from a doze, the culprit being Bruce’s mutter. His feet fall off the empty chair, the one Bucky had vacated hours earlier.

“Hmm?” Tony rubs his face. “Whatsat? Are they finished?”

Steve takes pity on him. It is, after all, three in the morning. He presses the intercom button between the medical theater and their viewing window. “Why is that, Bruce?”

Bruce, though he’s taken a back seat for this surgery, refuses to leave the room while Peter is sedated. The boy has been laid out on his stomach and two incisions made in his back, one near the base of his neck and one to reopen the tailbone wound.

The blood on Cho’s gloves turns Steve’s stomach.

It had Bucky’s too, even though he lasted a full three hours. He’d stolen one too many nervous glances at all the medical tools and Steve suggested he take a walk.

Clint and Natasha didn’t physically join them for this, but Steve has a feeling they’ve hacked a camera and are watching from somewhere they can freak out privately.

Bruce shakes his head. “His body has been trying to reintegrate that bone shard, closing around it.” 

Steve must visibly hesitate because Bruce makes a circular shape with his hands. “Think of a burdock stuck inside a ball of soft yarn, the yarn being Peter’s nerves. It’s shredding them. No wonder he was in pain.”

_Ah. That explains the convulsing. _

Cho holds up a pair of tiny forceps. Her clavicle is slick with sweat. “Got it!”

And there, on display for them, is a bloody yet surprisingly thick cap of bone. She drops it in a Petri dish. A few of the nurses pat her on the shoulder and chatter in Korean. Bruce shakes her hand in exhausted gratitude.

_The bullet chiseled it off, so small we didn’t notice. _Steve is winded and he’s done nothing but sit here for five hours. _One bullet might have paralyzed him for life._

Tony nudges Steve out of the way to press the button. “What about his cranial nerves? Especially III through IV? Your report wasn’t fun, Bruce.”

“We used small laser solders to reattach them as best we can. That will hopefully boost brain function and responses.”

“Now?” Steve asks.

Bruce removes his mask. “Now…we wait.”

So they do, for another three hours while the anesthetic wears off.

Tony and Steve sleep in shifts, wanting someone to be by Peter’s side at all times. Bruce nods off standing up at one point so Steve shoves him into the chair by Bucky’s bed, who’s already dead to the world.

Steve doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep right there in the recovery bay until hushed voices pick up in volume.

“Good news—his parasympathetic systems are back online. He’s breathing for himself and his feet twitched when I poked them with a cold rod. He can feel them again.”

Tony’s seething, even at a whisper. “Don’t hedge it, Bruce. No patronizing bull crap with me.”

“He…his EEG wasn’t great, Tony. Peter’s brain waves are still…flat.”

“Flat? Meaning?”

“He’s not responding.”

“Well, not to be callous here but he wasn’t before either. He wouldn’t respond to our questions.”

“No, Tony, I mean he’s not responding to _anything_.”

A beat. Steve wrestles his eyes open to the alarming sight of Bruce _finally_ in tears. It’s a relief and a hail Mary all in one.

“Before,” Bruce explains, “Peter at least looked at stimulus he heard or reacted to touch.”

“And now?”

“Tony—he won’t even wake up. I’m not sure he ever will.”

* * *

Coffee mugs are left on floors, stairs. Wherever is most convenient when someone stops caring.

Food spoils in the fridge. Tea grinds mold. Lights are left off, even when it rains, a small mercy in that the weather reflects their last hope and how it didn’t work.

“Pathetic fallacy,” Bucky says when the downpour spatters against the windows.

Steve remembers the term from his English class days but can’t remember what it means.

Pathetic, though. That fits.

_We were foolish to think this surgery would be a magic solution._

Nobody pretends anymore. No one comforts each other with optimistic speeches about how things will get better or Peter will wake up or they only need some time.

Time is all they have left anyway.

The reality of this wasteland that has become their lives does not fully sink in for Steve until the night he goes down to the gym. He boxes, his go-to.

He hits and punches and _slams_ that bag until he wants it to break. It does, of course, and sand spills at his feet.

Only when it tears apart does Steve sense another presence in the room. He turns, and there is Natasha, sitting on the mat. Her eyes rest somewhere near Steve but too distant to be on anything.

She’s got one knee tucked underneath her and the other propped up, where she rests her crossed arms.

Natasha, out of everyone on the team, possesses the best ability to be still. To make her body fully marble and unmoving. It’s a coup of human agility, something so otherworldly in her proficiency of it that the others have gotten used to seeing her sit somewhere for hours at a time without moving.

So the sight itself shouldn’t be unnatural.

But here in this moment where Steve wonders if being alive is worth it right now, it’s wrong.

There’s something _very _wrong about how still she is.

Steve almost calls her name and then thinks better of it. He realizes what feels weird—they’re in the gym. This is where she moves the most.

By the white of her bare feet and pale lips, she’s been sitting here for a long time. Maybe even longer than he has, which isn’t surprising considering how in his head he’s been.

Steve doesn’t say anything, just walks silently over and sits in front of her, his own legs pretzel folded.

Natasha’s eyes shift when Steve sighs.

“Do you ever wish you could die?” asks Natasha in that aching tone she, for some unfathomable reason, only lets Steve hear.

She sounds years younger, like Steve is getting a glimpse of what Natasha would have been like as a normal woman and not one who’d been trained to dismember people. It’s almost too intimate. Steve has the bizarre urge to avert his eyes.

He doesn’t, fixing them on Nat.

Steve’s voice is rough and broken. “All the time, before I met you guys.”

“And now?”

Steve doesn’t move.

Lines in Natasha’s forehead squeeze together and her nostrils flare. “This is the first time I’ve wanted to die for someone else. And this is the first time I can’t fight the problem.”

“It’s not fair,” says Steve, and understands all at once that this is the litany his head has been chanting for days. The same rhythm as his punches.

_Tony was right. Loving someone is dangerous. _

“Clint told me something once, and I didn’t believe him.” Natasha’s fingers twitch and Steve finally sees they’re holding a tiny knife. A butterfly knife. “Didn’t know enough to get what he was saying.”

Steve goes still too. His eyes remain on the knife. “What’s that?”

“That in love you always give more than you get. It’s always somewhat of a one way street. He said it was still worth it. Every time.” Nat too looks down at the blade. “I’m not so sure, though.”

The keen edge of the knife has been at a very specific angle the whole time. Perfectly positioned.

At last, an automaton released, Steve rocks forward and gradually pulls the blade out of Natasha’s unflinching grip.

Away from her throat.

Nat is glazed enough that she just watches when Steve throws the knife far away from where they sit. It skids away, echoing off the floor.

“I don’t see another way out, Steve.” Her tone is pitched slightly higher, like she might cry, but she doesn’t.

“Me neither.”

At last, Nat meets his eyes full on.

Steve stands, dusting off his pants. “But we’ll find one together, even if it’s just putting one foot in front of the other for the rest of our lives.”

Natasha doesn’t take Steve’s offered hand. She sits there and stares up at him with a burning gaze. “Has loving Peter made me weak?”

“Are you thinking about killing yourself again?”

Nat’s brow smooths as she really considers about this. Her head cants and then she decides, “No.”

“Then no. It’s only made you stronger.”

“Are you thinking about it?”

Steve almost says, _of course not_, then pauses. He knows he’d never do it deliberately, not with Bucky around now, but some of his patterns of behaviour are self destructive.

“If I do,” says Steve, “I’ll come straight to you. We’ll figure it out, accountable to each other. Deal?”

Natasha rides Steve’s pull to her feet. “Best offer I’ve had all night.”

* * *

Bucky _still_ refuses to give up his bed in the infirmary. He’s shoved it closer to Peter’s, just to watch him sleep.

He knows it’s not exactly sleep, but it’s easier to call it that.

Peter is indeed breathing on his own and that’s about as far as the good news goes. Sometimes, when everyone else finally goes away, Bucky climbs up next to Peter and breathes into his hair.

He doesn’t say anything on these occasions. Doesn’t need to. Peter is good without words and so is Bucky.

He and Stark make quite the pair, one chattering non-stop when he visits Peter, one completely silent. Bucky lays there after Steve goes down to the gym, eyes closed as he holds the boy close.

Bucky’s never noticed the pattern of faint freckles across Peter’s nose until tonight. They spatter across the milky skin like stars and glow with Peter’s skin so wan.

_I’m sorry. I know it’s only a matter of time before someone takes me out for this. The one problem they can’t fix is the one _I _caused. _

Bucky smooths a hand through Peter’s curls and listens to Peter’s slow, mechanical heartbeat for the rest of the night.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room spins from the bomb shell, Steve swaying a hair, both physically from the pressure of being shoved away and the emotional weight crushing both men. 
> 
> “He’s in my infirmary not twenty feet away.” Tony’s eyes widen as he mutters to himself. “He’s _right there_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated so much whether to include this. However, at the end of the day, the truth needs to be aired before they can - _all_ of them - move forward together. It didn't feel right, a cheap cop out, to sweep it under the rug.

“Hey.” Steve ignores the creeping prickle of dread along his spine. His hand finally registers the tautness of the shoulder muscle under his hand and he bends slightly to peer into the troubled face. “Have you seen Tony? He was here this morning and now I can’t find heads or tails of him. He looked…”

“Off,” Bruce finishes. He licks his lips and glances at Steve over his glasses. “I know.”

They’re silent for a moment. Both men not-so-subtly eye the ceiling.

“_He’s in the medical boardroom, down the hall_,” Friday finally says.

Another pause. Bruce frowns, his tense frame coiling even tighter. “And? What has he been doing for the last two hours?”

Steve catches Bruce’s gaze and they share a stormy look.

“Friday?”

“_I’m not permitted to say, Captain_.”

_That’s never good._

Tony’s tears had shut off once the surgery finished and Bruce broke the news that Peter probably wouldn’t wake up.

Instead of the mood swings from earlier, Tony’s gone silent. Flat affect. The quietest of them all except for his visits to a comatose Peter. Everyone has come to the point where they banded together.

Not Tony. Tony drifts further away with each passing day.

Bucky looks up from his book. “Did he say to lock the door?”

“_He did not_.”

With a nod to Bruce and Bucky, along with a hand squeeze to Peter, Steve winds down the hall, unnerved by how dim it is, how many lights have been shut off.

The medical boardroom sits at the very end of the hallway, the last door on the left. It’s far enough away that it won’t disturb patients and yet close enough to convene emergency meetings and consult on diagnosis results.

It also houses two large flat screens and a variety of AV equipment, most of it holographic…

But some of it is older tech.

Steve opens the door and no explosion inferno ever struck him like the atmosphere in this room.

Everything is dark except for one screen against the left wall. Tony sits on a stool before it. He’s in a rumpled blazer and jeans, utterly motionless like Nat was in the gym last night.

The TV is on, silhouetting Tony as a dark, small shadow.

Steve sees what he’s watching and his face doesn’t fall—it shuts off completely. An IED could detonate at their feet and Steve wouldn’t be as shocked as this moment.

And suddenly Steve understands that both he and Tony are just actors who’ve been stripped of their makeup to reveal the fleshy, weak parts underneath. Like it’s all a farce and they were wrong to pretend to be anything different.

_Different than what we really are: a sick kid from a poor neighborhood and a lonely, neglected college frat boy. _

Steve has never felt so close in age to the man in front of him.

They’re not, of course, decades apart and with lives so divergent that it’s a wonder they worked together at all. But there’s something unifying, a loathsome solidarity, to the way they’ve both fooled the world into thinking they are something bigger than the ill men inside.

_We’re better conmen than any criminals we take down. It’s laughable to act like we’re any better._

Steve stops a good three feet away from the back of Tony’s stool. He knows Tony senses him but the mechanic does nothing.

The only mercy in this situation is that the tape is almost done. Steve has missed the show.

Pitiful cries filter from the speakers, a woman’s pleading voice before her air is choked off. Steve’s gut turns to lead. Tony, other than a slight sway on the stool, doesn’t appear to react at all.

Grey static replaces the video.

“You grabbed the tape,” Steve whispers. “When we were in the bunker.”

Tony doesn’t move. Steve can’t see his face from this angle but there’s a ghostly, afterlife set in the posture of his shoulders. The way corpses are still.

“I didn’t understand.” Tony’s voice is dead, like the people on screen. “I didn’t get why Zemo lured us all that way just to hurt Peter. Why couldn’t he have done that in Romania or even right on our front door step or…”

_He needed Bucky to make this a ritual, symbolic killing. A repeat of history._

Tony has obviously come to the same conclusion. He bows his head for the briefest of seconds and Steve’s heart shatters.

“But now I realize what he was trying to do. He didn’t care if we watched this video now or later. The consequence is still the same. When Peter died, this would break us apart instead of unite us in our grief.”

“But Peter hasn’t died.” Steve’s heart is a frenzy in contrast to Tony’s too slow, dreadful beating. An executioner’s drum. “We got him back. Zemo’s plan backfired.”

Tony rears to his feet without warning.

His face is trying to be rock hard but cracks form around his eyes and quivering lips. Steve has never seen his glare so crackling, so thunderous.

“Did we get him back?” Tony jaw slides one way and then back again. “He’s lost. Forever. Don’t act like you don’t know that.”

Steve’s vision goes white for a moment with horror. The words slip out before he can stop them. “It wasn’t Bucky’s fault. You said you knew that.”

With speed to rival a whip, Tony clamps a hand around Steve’s bicep. His eyes are bright, both from tears and utter fury. It’s the bottling of a rocket before it explodes, the fizzing solution of torment solvents so potent they strain at their bounds.

Steve feels the energy running up that hand, the power too strong for its container.

_I lost you too, Tony._

Why can life not let him have people he cares about? Why must he always sacrifice one to gain another, an impossible decision?

Tony, for how he’s shaking with rage, can’t seem to get his voice past a guttural murmur. “Did you know?”

A stinging wave of anguish washes over Steve and drowns him for a moment. His life is full of choices he can’t win.

He may play the hero…but Steve questions for the first time if he’s ever played the villain in this drama of life. Now, stripped down, Steve can’t hide the truth swirling behind his eyes.

He wants to deflect this question, something like, ‘I wasn’t sure…never confirmed…’

Steve’s brows draw back and Tony’s knit together. The universe holds its breath for one suspended moment that’s so excruciating Steve seriously wonders if he’s lost his mind and if he hasn’t he very much wants to, just to be free of this.

“Yes,” says Steve.

Tony releases him at once.

The room spins from the bomb shell, Steve swaying a hair, both physically from the pressure of being shoved away and the emotional weight crushing both men.

“He’s in my infirmary not twenty feet away.” Tony’s eyes widen as he mutters to himself. “He’s _right there_.”

This thought must panic Tony enough to leap into action. He moves to shoulder past Steve. Steve steps deftly to the side, blocking Tony’s access to the door.

Tony’s teeth grind together. “Out of my way, Cap. I’m getting to him no matter what you do.”

Steve’s pulse sends an echoing beat of terror. “Not a chance, Tony. Stand down.”

“That was not a request. _Move_.”

They’re both in plain clothes but Tony lifts his arm as if to fire a gauntlet. Steve realizes a beat later that he’s pointing at the ceiling.

“I don’t need to lay a hand on Barnes to kill him. Friday? Enact Protocol Thirty-Seven.”

Steve gasps. His skin drains of colour. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“_I’m afraid I cannot safely dissipate the gas, boss, not with Mr. Parker also residing in the med bay._”

It’s impossible to tell, but Steve thinks he sees the instant Tony’s vision goes red with helpless wrath.

“He’s in there with my _son_!” Tony is finally, at long last, roaring.

“Our son! He’s _our _son!” Steve yells right back. “You promised! Your promised that you understood Bucky is a victim here too.”

Tony ignores him completely to lunge for the door.

It is, to the astonishment of both men, Steve who gets in the first punch.

It’s not a hard hit by any means. Steve doesn’t use his strength, just a regular connection across the left side of Tony’s jaw. Drunk men in bar fights have hit harder. Tony doesn’t even reel from it, used to much stronger wallops.

His jaw still drops in shock, eyes huge, and he stares at Steve like he’s never seen him before.

In turn, Steve has never seen Tony look so young before. He mirrors the shocked expression. Both men gape at each other for three heartbeats like schoolboys on the playground.

And then the reality of it all crashes down in one tidal wave.

Tony throws Steve against the wall while he’s still stunned. Steve falls and pounces back up.

“It wasn’t him, Tony. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

The bloodlust in Tony’s eyes grows as he fixates on a target. “I don’t care. He killed my mom.”

It goes to hell after that.

Steve stops thinking and is surprised to find himself on the defense for the fight. Tony lands in hit after hit, using moves that Steve recognizes because _he taught them._

With one brutal uppercut to Steve’s ear, he snaps out of it.

Their faces bloody in mere minutes and Steve feels the crunch of bone both in his own shoulder and under his hand when he shunts Tony’s arm to the side to throw him off balance.

Steve doesn’t have a shield and Tony doesn’t have any armour but as it turns out, neither need it whatsoever.

Tony’s nimble fingers are good for breaking just as much as they are for building, as it turns out. They’re everywhere—yanking and crushing and breaking and bouncing Steve against any furniture Tony can steer him close enough to.

There’s a loud, wet crack when Steve’s head hits the table at the exact same spot as his earlier concussion. Steve screams. It’s too abrasive a sound and it sets off an immediate alarm in Friday’s systems.

Her shrilling mixes with Tony and Steve’s growls of pain and berserker fighting.

In an instinctive move of self preservation, Steve swipes Tony’s legs out from under him and hefts the man’s entire body weight over his shoulder. He throws it far away from himself—

Right into the row of screens.

They splinter, glass impaling Tony’s back and sides.

It doesn’t keep Tony down, either thanks to adrenaline or kamikaze rage or a cocktail of both. The man leaps back up and bulls straight into Steve’s waist, hurtling them both to the floor. He pins Steve with a knee on his sternum and pummels the man’s face.

It’s Bucky and the helicarrier all over again.

Steve is shocked for the umpteenth time today—this time to feel tears on his face.

“He’s my friend,” Steve chokes out.

Tony squeezes Steve’s neck between his hands. “So was I.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony keeps his distance, though he covers the small hand on his own chest. His hand shakes more than Peter’s and it’s slick with blood. 
> 
> Steve’s blood.
> 
> For a breath all three all linked by this teenager.

“Can’t get in—”

“Concussion alert—”

“—Blood and—”

“Screaming—”

It’s loud.

_So _loud.

This is too raucous for Trigonometry class. Mr. Bindle would have said something by now or at the very least other classmates often shush each other. Especially now that they have a midterm coming up.

Now there’s just…_noise_.

_How am I supposed to focus if…_

The pain is gone. Where once was lava down his back is only cool, white numb. Only his joints are stiff now, as if he’s been sleeping in too late.

_Did I sleep in? Why didn’t May wake me before her shift?_

Alarms. That’s what this sound is.

_Is there a fire?_

There can’t be a fire. Someone put it out of his back, surely. He’s not even hot anymore, not in hot water.

_Water…_

_Water._

“Get me Natasha! She can diffuse this, surely.”

“No need. Keep everyone out. I’m going in.”

“Barnes, you can’t—”

“This is between he and I, not the others. Bruce, please.”

“I’m not staying put if this gets any worse. Scans are detecting multiple fractures, internal bleeding, contusions—”

“Fine. Come on.”

There’s the distant sound of a door opening and then screams so tortured that it’s hard to distinguish who they even belong to. The sounds of men in agony, every kind of agony, fill the classroom.

_Wait. This isn’t a classroom. _

Water, water, water.

_This isn’t the ocean either. _

“Tony—_NO_!”

Bucky cries out.

Steve shrieks.

Peter’s eyes snap open. All at once.

Sensations slam into him in rapid fire succession, too many to process what’s going on or where he is. Everything has been underwater and dull up to this point.

Now the sharpness of the overhead lights and the smell of antiseptic and the starchy sheets under his hands assault him with the clarity of an interrogator’s lamp.

None of this is so overwhelming to Peter as the _noise_.

He’s alone in the infirmary, which surprises him.

Bucky’s sheets have been thrown off in a hurry. A fantasia of voices compete with each other down the hall.

Tony and Steve are fighting.

Tony and Steve are _fighting_.

Peter will never be able to explain it to people later, what happens in this moment.

It’s like he is possessed by something greater than himself, the culmination of everything he’s lived through up to this very second. There’s no medical explanation for it.

His eyes go from glazed to clear. His floppy limbs calm.

Peter gingerly slides his feet off the bed and stands, trying to get his balance. He stumbles to one knee and then tries again, eyes never leaving the doorway. The IV is quickly ripped out, heart monitor unclipped, EEG nodes unpeeled from his scalp.

After a minute, he makes it into the hallway, clinging to the wall for support every step. His feet feel strange and too small for his body weight.

He’s drenched in sweat after only half the trip. Bruce crowds at the doorway, along with Clint and Natasha. It’s clear they’ve been sent out even as Bucky slips into the boardroom. They’re all screeching over top of each other.

Again Peter’s knees give out. They’re slow to obey commands, weak and newborn in coordination. He grunts as he lands.

Peter still pushes with everything he’s got with the single minded, all consuming _need_ to get in that room.

Legs trembling, he stands again.

He falls two more times before finally making it to Clint’s elbow. None of the others notice him, fixated on the sounds of a battle coming from the room.

Peter’s heart leaps into his throat—he has no idea of the context for what’s going on here.

But he knows exactly what he has to do.

It’s clear his parents have all been drowning in his absence. He’s never seen any of the Avengers this strung out and thin and so ill looking. Even Clint has shadows along his face and the darkness in his eyes he only sports when one of his kids is sick.

Peter’s knees give out _again_ so he takes advantage of it, crawling on all fours, threading between knees and bare feet and Bruce’s med kit.

What he sees threatens to bowl him over—

Steve and Tony are quite literally at each other’s throats. Steve’s right eye is swollen shut and Tony’s covered in glass, both from the TVs and the crack in his own arc reactor where, judging by the slices in Steve’s palm, he tried to crush it.

Bucky is off to the side, also on all fours to heave up blood from a nasty kick to his windpipe. Steve keeps angling his body so Tony can’t get to him. The two men are swearing and spitting and so filled with clear intent to kill that they’re different people right now altogether.

Peter’s chest immediately bucks in full-body sobs. He doesn’t try to keep unnoticed at all, just fights the incessant dizziness and struggles to stand.

And he _weeps_.

Peter’s high pitched whimpering somehow cuts through the mayhem. The three adults at the door, alarmed, holler his name.

Peter has lived through kidnapping, paralysis, abuse, extortion, drugging, drowning, strangulation, and so much more.

But right now…this sight is what breaks Peter Parker. It crosses a line he didn’t even know existed inside himself.

And even if it gets him killed, he does what no one else will:

He plants himself right in between Tony and Steve.

Tony, force of nature that he is right now, doesn’t even see Peter right away. Peter dodges a thrown fist.

It’s Steve who rocks on his heels, coughing. “_Peter_?!”

Peter wails out a long note, too long, and puts a hand on Steve’s chest. “Th…there’s…”

Tony goes quiet, panting for breath, a mess in every possible way. Everyone in the room stares at little Peter Parker. At this tiny boy jolted to the land of the living by a sound he’s never heard before.

Steve moves to scoop him up in his arms but Peter shoves him back, eyes a tornado of grief. Mistrust. He hisses like a live wire freed from its mooring.

Tony keeps his distance, though he covers the small hand on his own chest. His hand shakes more than Peter’s and it’s slick with blood.

_Steve’s blood_.

For a breath all three all linked by this teenager.

Then Peter looks between Steve and Bucky.

“There’s always another way.”

Steve pants out a wailing, defeated sound. Bucky hangs his head.

Peter thumps on Steve’s chest with a flat palm. Hard enough that he _is _using his super strength and it makes Steve waver a bit. “There’s _always_ another way! Always!”

Only sheer force of will—and a hand scrunched in Tony’s button up—keeps Peter on his defective feet. He sobs and sobs, and nobody moves from their statue garden impressions for a long time.

Peter stutters on a breath. “Don’t be like Zemo, please. Don’t make his mistake.”

The battle fervor fades, replaced by a noxious plume of shame that poisons the room.

Peter wonders if they’ll stay like this forever, if archaeologists will investigate what happened to the famed Avengers and find them frozen in this room.

Find them torn clean apart except for a single thread.

Peter.

He’s the one cable holding the whole bridge together, the one that refuses to sever. The seven look between each other except for Peter, head bowed, wishing he’d woken up to happy faces and excited greetings and group hugs and Clint’s hummus.

His family isn’t much a family right now. He’s lost them all, to a force completely outside of his control. He’s not even sure who he is if he doesn’t have them as a foundation of support.

Peter’s prediction might have come true, their unmoving stalemate that refused to break.

Except just then Steve passes out.

Peter goes down with him.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve either ignores Peter’s question or is so overcome by the sight of him that he can’t process anything else.
> 
> Probably the latter, judging by the fact Steve’s eyes immediately fill up. With his right arm in a sling, he reaches across with his left, the limb trembling.

“I leave for five minutes and it all goes to pot.” Despite the attempt at humour, Sam wears a concerned frown. “Bunch a’ kindergarteners…”

Rhodes doesn’t even try for the same level of nonchalant. He hasn’t bothered to change out of his army fatigues either—

He enters the infirmary and marches straight to Peter. Picking the boy up, he sits on the visitor’s chair and cradles Peter on his lap. Peter doesn’t fight the hold, letting Rhodey pat him down and Sam rub his shoulder.

They’re both jetlagged from the long flight, eyes tired but full of worry for him. It isn’t clear who called the two men but either way they’ve made it here in record time since the fight broke up not four hours ago.

Peter feels hollowed out, gaze a thousand yards long. He’s limp in Rhodes’ protective arms.

Sam and Rhodes exchange a sad look when they see it.

The ache and pull of ten days worth of lying in a hospital bed make even Peter’s eyelids sore.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” Rhodes, perhaps the least affectionate person in Peter’s life aside from Hill, in a momentous occasion to top off this day chalk full of firsts, plants a tender kiss on Peter’s forehead. “Why don’t you let yourself sleep, little man? You must be exhausted, especially after all of Bruce’s tests. We’ll be right here the whole time.”

Peter’s droopy eyes pop back open. “Can’t. They might start fighting again. Got to…to be ready to step in.”

Sam’s eyes darken into something Peter can’t read. “That’s not your job.” He drapes Peter’s legs over his knees. “That’s why we flew all the way here. _We’re_ the adults, Pete.”

Peter wants to argue, like a festering itch under his skin, but there are more pressing things to worry about.

“What was on the tape?” His voice comes out faint. “No one will tell me.”

Sam and Rhodes meet each other’s eyes, the same look everyone’s been throwing around since it happened. Peter feels like the secrecy and tension are contagious at the rate they’re multiplying in this medical wing alone.

He’s heard the hushed conversations, once everyone was done hugging and crying all over him.

Rhodes opens his mouth but is saved by Bruce entering.

“I don’t know how, Peter, but you’re a medical miracle.” The doctor’s eyes are bright. “Other than a few weeks of physical therapy to relearn how to use those legs, you’re in good health, even your brain waves. It’s…I can’t explain it, really.”

And he hugs Peter again for good measure. Peter closes his eyes against the lab coat, wrapping his arms around the soft lines and saffron smell that are so essentially _Bruce_.

“You’re safe. You woke up…you’re safe.”

Bruce seems to be reassuring himself, totally ignoring the fact that to hug Peter he pretty much has to drape himself over Rhodes. Rhodes doesn’t seem to mind. Sam manages to weasel through to ruffle Peter’s hair, a free patch Bruce doesn’t have his hand cupped around.

“Let us in on the love.”

“Clint!” Peter pulls back so the archer can kneel beside Bruce and squeeze the life out of him. He’s the only parent Peter hasn’t talked to yet. “I missed you!”

Clint garbles something that’s probably supposed to be, “missed you too,” but he’s breathing too shallow for it to come out. Nat stands over his shoulder with a warm look.

The archer’s hands are wide and strong around Peter’s back. One of his thumbs settles just above the bandages around Peter’s spine and their two heartbeats throb a duet.

Unlike the others, Clint doesn’t shake, doesn’t kiss his cheeks like Nat did. Clint just holds his child in a shielding embrace and breathes so quickly that his chest knocks Peter’s ribs.

“I’m okay,” says Peter, quieter. He’s never seen Clint scared before. It’s like an image not quite in focus, the lines all wrong.

“Give me a minute. Just let me…just let my body figure that out, okay?”

Peter nods. He can relate.

Over his shoulder, he watches Bruce check Steve’s vitals, where the man is conscious but groggy—drugged—in the bed.

_My old bed._

It feels wrong that they’ve traded places.

It’s also laughable how much bigger Steve looks in it. His legs stretch a clear ten inches farther towards the foot board than Peter’s.

When Clint reluctantly lets Peter go, the boy slides off Rhodes’ lap.

“Whoa! Whoa! Hey!” Sam catches Peter around the ribs before he can topple over. “I think Banner was pretty clear about the whole your-legs-are-basically-those-of-a-newborn-horse thing. Let us help you, man.”

Peter does indeed feel like a toddler, legs uncoordinated and kicking while Sam holds his weight. He knows he should be embarrassed about this but here, finally awake, and crowded in a room with people he loves, Peter is just relieved.

_I didn’t die in that bunker. Bucky and I made it out alive._

That’s the real miracle here, in Peter’s opinion.

“Steve?” Peter’s arms make it to the bed and Sam forgoes the pretense of ‘helping’ Peter to just lift him up. He sets Peter on the edge so his scrub-clad legs dangle off. “Does it still hurt?”

Steve either ignores Peter’s question or is so overcome by the sight of him that he can’t process anything else.

Probably the latter, judging by the fact Steve’s eyes immediately fill up. With his right arm in a sling, he reaches across with his left, the limb trembling.

Peter obliges without a word, leaning closer so Steve can cup the back of his head, like Bruce, and press their foreheads together.

Various monitors start beeping but nobody jumps to do anything. Steve’s injuries are numerous but non lethal and in this moment, even Peter understands that he needs this more.

Though he’s careful with Peter’s wounds, his grip is three times as strong as Clint’s. He whisks Peter clean off his spot, even with just one arm, and embraces him full body, breathing into his hair and the bandages around the back of his neck.

“Peter.”

Peter’s back twinges but he smiles, remembering that day.

“_Steve._” Peter doesn’t realize how much he’s been holding inside, all the hurt and terror of being kidnapped, the longing for his parents, the certainty that he was going to die in that wasteland, until Peter says the man’s name out loud. “Steve, it wasn’t—I—I didn’t—”

“Sshhh.” Sam strokes a hand up and down Peter’s back since Steve can’t right now. “It’s okay, little man. We got you out. You’re safe.”

Peter knows, somewhere in the back of his addled mind, that for them it’s been nearly two weeks since Siberia. They’ve had time to process.

But for Peter, it’s like it just happened.

The last thing he remembers before waking up to Steve’s screams is _Bucky’s_ screams when his hand retracted without his consent. Book-ended by horror. 

He hiccups. “Zemo! We’ve got to catch him and he’ll come back and—”

“Pete, we caught him,” says Clint. Peter pulls back to glance at the archer. “He can’t hurt you or anyone else again.”

Peter doesn’t cry but he closes his eyes and shudders out a long exhale.

Clint explains to Peter in soft tones what’s happened since his rescue, how they performed surgery and he wouldn’t respond to their voices. All the moments he missed.

Peter frowns. “I don’t remember that. Any of it.”

Steve squeezes him once, hard, where Peter lays against his chest. “That’s alright, son. We’re just glad you’re back.”

Noticeable is Tony’s absence and Peter isn’t quite ready to unpack what happened in the boardroom.

It is only as his eyelids slip shut for good that he realizes two things: Sam is sitting there to act as Steve’s bodyguard, Rhodes for Tony. They’re muscle in case things escalate again.

And second—

“Hey,” Peter slurs. “You’ve been puttin’ me to sleep…”

Clint’s rumbling laughter follows Peter into dreamland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, sleepy, emotional cuddles are my Kryptonite. I will die with this trope.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The expression that morphs slowly across Tony’s face is one Peter never forgets until his dying day. It’s the white agony of men before they die, limbs being torn in two different directions in such savage pain that they plead for death. It is a swan song that ripples Tony’s brows and sends his mouth into an S twist, jaw pulsing.
> 
> Peter, for one unearthly moment, gets a glimpse of Tony as a much younger man.

_Maybe the paralysis extended to my left arm._

Peter opens his eyes and sees that, nope. It’s just asleep. The static feeling of blood rushing back is wildly exciting, after weeks of unconsciousness.

_Feeling things is annoying! I love it!_

Peter glances to the side at Steve, dead to the world. In the night time dark, lights shut off, his bruises are somehow more noticeable. Calico splotches decorate his face and arms. Purples, yellow, _greens_. Peter didn’t even know bruises could be green.

There are more under the hospital gown. More hairline fractures than Peter can fathom. One gargantuan welt mars Steve’s hairline beneath the bandages, coupled with a compound concussion that nearly cracked his skull.

_Tony did all this. With his bare hands._

It’s a petrifying thought. 

In a suite down the hall, Tony’s got a matching set.

It’s shaken Peter so to his core that his mind can’t swallow it, the reality that his parents will fight _each other_, given the right motivation.

Sure, he’s seen them slay any bad guy of the week. Sometimes with vicious prejudice.

But this…this is something far more sinister.

Peter rolls the images around in his head, the way Tony’s eyes were saturated with blood lust. He juxtaposes it with Tony giving Steve a bad sweater at Christmas and how they’d fall asleep all over each other on movie nights.

He hides his face in Steve’s side when the tears finally come.

_I need to see him_, Peter thinks. _I need to know what happened._

There’s no concern about being ginger with Steve this concussed. They’ve woken him every few hours to check lucidity and thankfully he’s out of the woods for brain damage. He sleeps on even with Peter’s jostling.

Sam’s snoring away on a cot against the opposite wall, back to Peter.

Peter manages to get off the bed. He’s an ice cream cone on a hot summer’s day, his body melting straight onto the floor. He might as well have pool noodles for legs.

_Okay. Crawling. I can work with this._

Which is exactly what he does, fumbling on all fours through the open doorway and down the hall.

“_Mr. Parker_,” says Friday softly. “_Would you like me to wake Mr. Wilson so he can bring you a wheelchair?_”

“No, no. Thanks, Fri. I’ve got this.”

Peter stops at the private suit. To his shock, Tony’s hospital bed is empty. The sheets are pulled back, as if he got up recently.

Peter shakes his head, mournful again, and keeps going until he turns a corner—

_Bucky?_

The man doesn’t notice him right away, eyes closed. He’s not sleeping, however, not with the too-even rise and fall of his chest and the stiff line of his jaw.

It’s like Bucky is forcing himself to be still.

Peter wonders abruptly why they didn’t put him with Steve. The two deserve it, after all they’ve been through.

Bucky’s room is smaller than all the others and there are strange mechanisms on the windows. Even Peter, for all his advanced knowledge, doesn’t have a clue what they are, which is a glaring advertisement for the fact Tony designed them.

“Who’s there?” Bucky’s eyes flit around. His voice is rough from the bruises along his windpipe. “I can hear someone breathing.”

“Down here.”

Bucky cranes his head around the side of the bed. “Peter?”

Peter wishes Bucky would help him up already, would reach down with his one muscly arm and pull him to standing.

Then he sees the Kevlar strap around Bucky’s wrist, chained to the bed rail.

_Oh. _

Peter again glances at the two-pronged devices on the windows. “You’re being kept as a prisoner?”

Bucky sounds tired. “I did some bad things, Peter. I’m a…a danger to everyone here. Tony called the UN and they’re picking me up.”

Nose wrinkling, Peter makes a disgusted face. “You saved my life! You protected me from Zemo.”

There’s a long pause while Bucky eyes the ceiling. “Did I, though?”

Peter, dumbfounded, has no reply to that.

“You should go, malysh. Tony doesn’t want you near me.”

“The Winter Soldier wasn’t you.” Peter licks his lips, nervous for some reason when he finally gets Bucky to meet his eyes. “You were brainwashed, right? Bucky Barnes would never have assassinated people.”

_Those _whispered conversations he’s overheard have been very insightful.

“Maybe not. But I was a sniper long before that.”

Peter reaches up for the bed rail. Almost there…

“Yeah,” he says around a wheeze of effort. “But you only shot bad guys during the war, right?”

It’s Bucky turn to keep silent.

“You deserve a medal, not a jail cell.”

Bucky’s eyes fill with an emotion Peter doesn’t have a name for right away. It’s grey, the nothing kind of sorrow of half eaten food and evacuated houses.

“I don’t deserve anything except death for what I’ve done.” Bucky’s voice drops to something breathless. “I remember them all, every face I’ve ever killed, regardless of age or station.”

Peter gives up trying to stand and sits there, pale. Images of a muzzled figure, that he’d seen in the Russian file and never understood, haunt him now. They’re the _same man_ as the one strapped to this bed.

He comes to a sudden realization.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Bucky locks eyes with him again.

“Even knowing you killed people,” Peter insists. “Because that wasn’t you. _You_ fed me on Zemo’s plane. _You_ jumped through a window and let yourself get injured. _You_ were willing to shoot Steve point blank to protect me.”

Peter feels the burn of tears in his throat again. “_You _are Bucky, my friend.”

Bucky’s mouth drops open. Peter’s never seen him truly stunned and he relishes the humanity of the expression.

The soldier’s eyes, however, fix just over Peter’s shoulder.

Peter turns in barely enough time to see the calloused hands reaching for him. Tony snatches him up and quickly backs away, setting Peter in a wheelchair with such force the boy bounces.

Tony’s voice is a hot stream of fire. “Stay away from my son.”

Peter gasps. “Tony!”

“He came to me, Stark.”

Frustrated, Peter tugs on the back of Tony’s bath robe, careful to avoid the bulky bandages where they pulled glass out of his shoulder blades. “What is going on? He’s not going to hurt me!”

Tony glances briefly back at Peter and then throws a vulcanized look at Bucky. “It’s not his fist I’m worried about.”

Bucky, pliable up to this point, stiffens into a hard silhouette. “You can do whatever you want to me, Stark. But don’t you dare insinuate that I would put false ideas in Peter’s head or lie about what happened, that I don’t care about him just as much as you do.”

Tony growls in his throat.

“I’d keep him safe if it cost me my life,” Bucky finishes, muted.

The expression that morphs slowly across Tony’s face is one Peter never forgets until his dying day. It’s the white agony of men before they die, limbs being torn in two different directions in such savage pain that they plead for death. It is a swan song that ripples Tony’s brows and sends his mouth into an S twist, jaw pulsing.

Peter, for one unearthly moment, gets a glimpse of Tony as a much younger man.

It’s ghastly. It’s too much. Peter wishes at once that he’d never seen it.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Tony whispers.

A dark hand grips Tony’s shoulder, both comforting and restraining. Peter looks up at Rhodes, also pained. Pepper and Sam stand at the door.

“I’m taking Peter with me.” Tony’s face blackens. “I’m going to Malibu and we’re getting away from here.”

“Honey,” says Pepper. “You can’t take Peter away from his family. It’s not healthy, not to mention illegal—”

“Like hell I can’t!”

Rhodes sighs. “He isn’t cleared to fly yet, Tones.”

“Then we’ll drive! Anything to put some distance here.”

Peter has had enough.

He punches his fist against the arm rest, hard. The adults whirl on him.

“Stop it! Tony—you heard what I said to Bucky and I know you know it’s true. Why can’t you treat him like what he is, a victim?”

The whites of Tony’s eyes flash. “Peter—”

“I know he killed people, but so did Natasha and you have no problem trusting her!”

Tony swiftly goes down in a crouch. “Peter, believe it or not, I’m objective enough to get that. But it’s…it’s more complicated than that.”

“How?”

Tony’s eyes flare, haunted. “It’s who he killed, specifically, Pete.”

Peter’s blood pressure must be sky high, he recognizes this. But for how worked up he is, he understands that he might not want to know the answer to this mystery. Like the ending of a horror movie when the truth is revealed and everyone dies.

It chills him.

“Please,” Peter whispers, not even sure what he’s begging for. “Please, Tony.”

_I just want everything to be the way it was. I want us to be a family_.

“I’m sorry, Pete.” And Tony seems it, voice wobbly and eyes wet. “It’s not even Barnes I have the biggest issue with. Steve lied. Lied for a long time about something really important.”

Peter burns with helplessness and frustration. “You’re all about second chances. That could be the Avengers motto for how true it is of everyone in this building. This is just like that, right?”

Tony’s eyes are old fashioned sad now, full to bursting with heartache. His voice is gentle and Peter hates it. “Not this time, Pete. I’m sorry.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's eyes burn with unshed tears.
> 
> Peter must sense this somehow, for his head lifts and he just searches Tony’s face for a long minute.
> 
> Two orphans gazing at each other.

They’ve been out for a long time.

Tony knows this because when he opens his eyes, the end credits are playing for a film they weren’t even watching. Gentle string music whirs away in the background stereo speakers, turned down, faint, to keep them asleep.

Despite this, it’s strangely quiet. No people in the common area.

Tony keeps his lids at half mast, soaking up Pepper’s drowsy weight against his chest and the slow thrum in his veins. It throbs against his injuries, the punctures in his spine, the bruises painting his face, the pain decorating his chest where Steve’s hands had ripped at it.

Hands shaking from that memory image, Tony closes his eyes in Pepper’s strawberry hair. She smells like lavender and lime, an alluring and sharp combination.

When he asked her a few days ago what she thinks of all this, his decision to press charges, she took Tony’s face in her lovely, soft, indestructible hands—

_“I’ll support whatever you decide, so long as you move forward with your words and not your fists.”_

Now, anger does not dominate the world anymore. Oh, he wants it. Yearns deeply, fiercely for it like a long lost lover. It never remains.

Instead, Tony is reigned by a flaking kind of tiredness. A more poetic man might call it hopelessness. Achy sorrow. He doesn’t like that term as much.

No Man’s Land, that fits better. It’s a Nothing eating away at the honeycomb structure of his heart and all its defenses. The Nothing’s sticky tendrils have reached so far inside Tony that he’s not sure he ever wants to move again.

He doesn’t realize he’s drifting off again until a humming floats into the room.

Preceding it is the muted drum of rubber wheels on the carpet. The chatter of voices is low, and Pepper doesn’t wake at all, but Tony hears the distinctive tones and opens his eyes.

Natasha takes the open spot on Tony’s right. The couch dips when she lifts Peter from his chair and nestles the boy between them.

“He was asking for you,” Nat whispers.

It’s nearing two in the morning, way past when Peter should be awake, but Tony just loops an arm around his bony frame.

Peter is far more alert than Tony expects. His big chestnut eyes look up at the adults with a crackle of something Tony can’t read.

Maybe he’s got a case of the Nothing too.

At the thought, Tony pulls him closer. Peter rests his head on Tony’s free shoulder. It’s delicious, exactly the way the world should feel, wife on one side, his child on the other.

Nat must be more tired than she seems, because as soon as she sees her charge cared for, her eyes droop. They’ve all been running on adrenaline since the incident.

_He’s here. _Tony can’t even begin to calculate how affluent and blessed he is to have Peter’s warm fingers bunched in his shirt. _He didn’t die. He's here and almost in one piece_.

Tony is no hero, and knows this, knows he hasn’t done anything to deserve the trusting expression, the curly strands, the perfect little ears.

His eyes burn with unshed tears.

Peter must sense this somehow, for his head lifts and he just searches Tony’s face for a long minute.

Two orphans gazing at each other.

Peter’s eyes are terribly old. Too old for the cherub face with its fading rosiness and bruises around his neck.

Then he opens his mouth in a hesitant whisper—“I’m hungry.”

Tony snorts before he can stop it. Pepper shifts but doesn’t wake.

“How does turkey sound?” Tony leans down to tap Peter’s nose with his own. “I’ll even use some of my mom’s secret sauce.”

Without waiting for an answer, Tony carefully slides out from under Pepper, stands, and swings Peter up into his arms. He’s neither tall or strong enough to set him on his hip, but Peter doesn’t seem to care.

Once he has Peter settled on the counter by the stove, Tony rummages through the fridge and retrieves the jar of Italian sauce, turkey, lettuce, and some thick white cheese slices.

Peter nibbles at a banana, eyes intent and cozy on Tony while he assembles a hasty sandwich on thick artisan bread.

“There.” Tony steps back with two jazz hands in a ‘ta-da!’ motion. “What do you think, chef?”

Peter brightens. “I can eat it?”

Tony’s plastered on smile falters a little. He pokes Peter in the stomach just to hear his husky laughter, so much like Bruce’s. “Why would I have made you a sandwich at this ungodly hour just to keep it from you?”

With a shy, grateful look, Peter takes a huge bite.

“‘S good,” he declares, mouth full. “Thanks! Your mom made good topping. I bet she was a great cook.”

Tony’s heart pangs but he finds himself grinning softly. “Yeah…she was.”

How she would have treasured Peter. His bright, sage outlook on life, his enthusiasm over those he loves, the way he can design things with enough dexterity to rival Tony.

The screen lights up with another movie, auto played, and the alabaster light sheens off Peter’s front curls, the ones that have grown extra long near his eyes.

A little too tired, in too much pain, a little too bright eyed, Tony whisks Peter off his spot and sits at the island, Peter in his lap. It’s indulgent, but he doesn’t care with the boy’s shoulder pressed into his chest, heartbeat palpable under Tony’s hand where it’s wrapped around the thin stomach.

Peter doesn’t bat an eye at the change, munching away.

He looks sad now too, though. Thoughtful.

When he offers the sandwich, Tony takes a noisy bite just to see Peter crinkle his nose in exasperated humour.

“Reminds me of the p-plane,” says Peter. He finishes chewing a bite. “When we flew to Siberia.”

Tony stiffens. Then forces himself to relax, to remain at ease for Peter’s sake. “You ate a sandwich on the plane?”

Peter nods. “Didn't taste as good as yours. Bucky fed me.”

No reply comes to Tony’s tongue except ugly words not for this kid’s ears, so he says nothing.

“We sat just like this,” Peter continues. There’s a dot of sauce in the floret corner of Peter’s lip but Tony doesn’t wipe it away. He’s mesmerized by the sight of Peter eating Mum’s favourite sandwich. “We shared it then too. Sort of. He made me eat most of it myself.”

Tony gathers Peter tighter to his chest and presses kisses over the unruly hair.

Later, when Tony is finally following his wife’s lead to bed, he passes by Peter’s room and hears rubies of shining notes falling through the door.

He stops. It’s Natasha—singing a Russian lullaby to Peter while helping him into bed.

Tony doesn’t breach the sanctuary space of his son’s room. He sits on the floor, back to the wall next to the door frame, and closes his eyes. The syllables are unfamiliar and too intimate all at once, the Slavic diction tender. Nothing like The Winter Soldier’s muttering on the embassy rooftop.

“Friday?” Tony breathes. “What is Barnes doing right now?”

A pause.

“_I think it would be indiscreet to say_.”

Tony’s mind jumps through all sorts of bizarre possibilities until Friday pulls up a hologram of Bucky, still in his prison hospital room, swung to the side of his bed. He can’t go far, with the cuff, but his head is bowed.

Tony squints at the live feed. Then Barnes sniffs, looking out the barred window, and Tony understands.

Barnes is crying. Not a lot, not great fat drops like Steve does sometimes.

But two chase each other to the ground and Tony thinks those rare tears, like Peter, are probably one of the most valuable things in this compound.

He sits there for so long that his legs go numb, listening to Nat’s lullaby and his son’s sleepy whispers that transition into deep, even breaths.

Natasha comes out and closes the door, then kneels to squeeze Tony’s shoulder. She doesn’t say anything either. But her eyes are warm, so very at peace, that Tony’s finally spill over.

He sits there and thinks of Mum’s cooking, Russian songs, and his antithesis—weeping two floors beneath his socks over a lost future, just like he is—until the sun comes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, writing this one got me. *Sniff sniff*


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has only taken one dance class in his life and it was a disaster. He always found himself dizzy when the dance ended, the final twirl and dip. That vertigo sinking as the ground rushed up too fast.
> 
> Now, the dance that has been between him and Tony, all along, is winding down and Steve is still spinning.

'Oh God, I'm so tired  
Of being afraid.  
  
What would it feel like  
To put this baggage down?  
If I'm being honest  
I'm not sure I'd know how.'

"Six" ~ Sleeping At Last

_One week later…_

The irony isn’t lost on Steve that he’s getting quite good at escaping hospitals.

It is laughably easy, once everyone leaves for the front lobby where the UN will be coming to take Bucky into custody, to give Bruce the slip and hobble to the elevator.

He hardly has to think where he’s going. It’s like a sonar ping to locate the target of his thoughts.

He _does_ wish he wasn’t in sweatpants and a blue scrub shirt for this meeting, but he takes what he can get. At least he’s got shoes on this time.

The elevator doors ding, sliding open.

Steve’s breath seizes. He feels like he’s facing Erskine’s lab for the first time, wondering what he’s getting himself into.

Squaring his shoulders, he pushes on the handle and is floored that it’s unlocked. That he isn’t barricaded from this room.

For once, it’s completely silent. No music. No chatter. The bots are powered down in their corner, machines dim.

It’s a bitter echo of last week, when he found Tony hunched in front of a screen.

This time Tony is scrunched over a lab table, tiny screwdriver working at the busted reactor. Steve knows full well that Tony’s got a stock of these, that he can just as easily throw this one out.

The fact he’s determined to fix it makes Steve feel like he’s aged ten years.

“You think you can come down here and an inspirational speech will change my mind?”

Steve shakes his head, even though Tony can’t see him. “I’m not here to justify my actions. Or change your mind.”

Tony swivels on the stool. He leans his elbow on the table, head propped on his knuckles. He just looks dead tired now, so exhausted Steve feels his own injuries throb in sympathy. They’re both a sorry sight.

Steve lets some of his vulnerability show, the young man inside an old body. “I came to say I’m sorry.”

Tony doesn’t quip back, astonishing Steve for the second time that day.

“You tried to tell me, on the quinjet to Siberia.”

Steve nods. “You deserved the truth. I’m the real monster here, for not having the courage to tell you sooner. I just…I’ve always thought of Bucky and the killer who did those things as two different people.”

Tony’s eyes are unreadable.

Steve has only taken one dance class in his life and it was a disaster. He always found himself dizzy when the dance ended, the final twirl and dip. That vertigo sinking as the ground rushed up too fast.

Now, the dance that has been between him and Tony, all along, is winding down and Steve is still spinning.

“It’s always been you,” Steve blurts, the words sounding like they belong to someone else. “_Always_ you.”

Tony’s brows shoot up, his own surprise showing, but Steve plows right over him.

“I thought I hated this new century with its noises. Its constant light and talking and brash privilege.” Steve sits heavily on the edge of the table. “I looked at you and for a while it was easier to think of you as the epitome of everything I hated. Everything that was wrong with the world.”

Steve snorts, a bitter and self loathing sound. Tony looks down at his hands.

“Really, Tony, you’re everything I wish I could be.”

Tony keeps his head down but Steve has known him long enough to recognize the crinkling between his eyes and around his temples. He’s shocked.

“You’re excitable and smart and untainted, at least where it counts in helping people. I’ve become…jaded in a way you haven’t.”

“Unattainable,” Tony murmurs.

Steve nods. “Exactly.”

“No, I mean, that’s what my dad said about _you_.”

Steve blinks.

“That’s what you’ve always been to me,” says Tony. “Something unattainable.”

Steve shakes his head. “That’s foolish. I’m no better than anybody else, and I mean that honestly. I might be stronger physically but not in character.”

Tony’s eyes are exposed for a split second and then he seems to catch himself, closing off. “What does this have to do with Barnes?”

Steve stands. “I’m saying all this because it’s me asking you not to change what’s so good about you—don’t let the truth of your parents ruin how kind you are, your level of trust in the world, your generosity.”

Steve’s chest cinches so tight he thinks it might collapse right there. He takes one long, sad look around the lab, his last, trying to memorize the details.

Tony sighs, a sound that has Steve wanting to place a hand on his knee. He resists and simply nods at the mechanic.

“Stay safe, Tony.”

Tony’s eyes snap back up. “Wait—are you…you’re leaving with Barnes?”

Steve shakes his head again…then nods. “Temporarily, until this mess is sorted. But I’m not abandoning Peter. If forced to choose, I’ll take him every time, even if you kick me out and I have to visit him on weekends or something.”

Tony’s eyes are back to that poker face but Steve wonders what has him going so still.

“And for what it’s worth,” says Steve, younger sounding than he likes, “I have always been, and always will be, your friend, Tony. That wasn’t a lie.”

Having said his piece, he rides the elevator back up.

* * *

The others are gathered in a circle in the sunlit lobby. Bucky isn’t restrained but Rhodes stands at his side, rifle over one shoulder. They’re both relaxed, with the knowledge that Bucky has no desire to escape and even if he did, he’s surrounded by some of the deadliest people on this planet.

He wouldn’t make it two inches to the door.

Natasha and Peter are the only ones sitting, Peter in his wheelchair beside Bucky and Nat on a visitor’s chair, pointing out mistakes in the Spanish homework on his lap.

“Hey, Frodo.”

Peter looks up at Steve’s approach. “Steve! You’re not supposed to be moving around yet.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Steve laughs at Peter’s eye roll and kisses his messy hair, savouring that too, fretting over how long it will be before he can do it again. He hides his grief. “Did you have a good visit with Ned?”

“Yeah! He just left but he dropped off the three weeks’ homework I missed.” Peter makes a face and the adults hide their snickers. “He cried more than all of you put together. Bruce had to make him some hot cocoa.”

Bruce smiles. “Never harsh on the medicinal powers of chocolate.”

Clint folds his arms with a smirk. “That’s what his MJ friend always says.”

“That’s because she’s highly intelligent,” says Nat, erasing one of Peter’s conjugations. “Try number eight again.”

Peter does but even Steve can tell his heart’s not in it. He steals glances at Bucky.

When the man catches him doing it, he kneels to be at Peter’s eye level. “We’ll be alright, bud. Us old fogies can handle ourselves.”

“What do you mean ‘us,’ Bucky?” Peter looks stricken. He grabs Steve’s hand. “You’re going too?”

Steve swallows back a lump in his throat. “Just for a little while, Peter. I just got my oldest friend back. I’m making sure he gets a fair trial and then I’ll come right back. I promise.”

“Are you going to…live here with us anymore?”

Steve fights to muster a smile. “Probably not, bud. Don’t you worry about it.”

“Too late,” Sam mutters, looking upset too.

Peter might as well have been shot again for how devastated he looks. “You said this was home!”

“It was, Pete. You are.” Steve glances at Rhodes. “But I’m not sure Tony feels the same way and it’s his house, so to speak.”

“Then I’m coming with you!”

The adults all talk over each other, trying to quench that thought before it can take root in Peter’s mind.

“No, son.” Steve untangles his fingers from Peter, feeling like he’s killing the boy slowly. “You need to stay here and go to that science fair and teach Nat how to make real salsa and a whole bunch of other things part of being a normal kid. I wouldn’t dare take that away from you.”

Nat shifts forward and Steve thinks she’s going to flick his ear for the salsa comment but she pulls him into a one armed hug instead.

She whispers in his ear. “You know how to call me for help if things get sticky. Love you.”

Steve nods, not trusting himself to speak. Peter’s started to sniffle.

Everyone turns when the elevator doors ring again. They’re all flabbergasted to see Tony, who Steve figured would wait to come out when this was over. He’s avoided Bucky’s presence since that day. No reason to quit now.

“Tony?” he calls.

Then he sees that Tony has a cellphone to one ear, rectangular fiberglass case in the other hand. His jaw is stony but his eyes have that unique spark and they’re locked on Steve.

“Yes, you heard me right,” he barks to someone on the other end. “This morning, just like I said. Barnes escaped custody and is in the wind. Even my systems can’t track him.”

Steve stands, a full body shiver going through him. They all stare at Tony, even Peter, the pencil dropping from his lax fingers.

_Did I just hallucinate that? Did Tony just…_

“Why didn’t I tell you before now?” Tony’s lips curl into the harsh but genuine beginnings of a smile. A shared smile between he and Steve. Steve echoes it, legs turning to jelly. “Because we didn’t notice before now. You’d better turn back and start a search! Hop to it!”

Tony hangs up even though Everett is still audibly yelling into the other end.

They’re turned to marble again, just like in the boardroom, so bowled over by this that no one wants to break the ice-thin moment.

It is Bucky who shoulders past Rhodes and Clint to stop in front of Tony.

Former killer and orphan gaze at each other and have a conversation with just their eyes that even Steve can’t decrypt.

“You didn’t have to do that,” says Bucky aloud, finally. “It’s the least I deserve.”

Tony nods. “That’s certainly what the Winter Soldier deserves.”

Stark’s eyes again find Steve. He shares a woeful, conspirator’s look, then glances at Peter. His eyes melt. “But a wise little teenager helped me see that you’re just as much a victim of this as I am.”

Peter’s slack jaw lifts in a hesitantly hopeful expression.

Tony’s chin ticks. “I won’t pretend that this is easy, that all is magically forgiven, because that’s going to take time. You stole my past.”

Tony looks back at Bucky with the first stirrings of mutual respect. Steve holds his breath.

“But you saved my future.” Tony holds out his hand. “That’s a debt cancelled in my books, if there even was one to begin with.”

_“You saved my future.”_

It’s like the storm clouds roll back with those four words. Sunlight blinds them all.

And Steve can _breathe._

With shy hesitation Steve hasn’t seen in seventy years, Bucky’s palm clasps Tony’s. Their hands pump once.

The vertigo fades from Steve enough that he darts to be at Bucky’s side. “I know you can’t forgive me, but I hope you’ll at least come to trust me again.”

Tony nods, slowly, wary but open. “Second chances, right?”

Peter breaks the heavy moment by wheeling forward and throwing his arms around Tony’s waist, gentle with the bandages. Tony huffs, carding his fingers through Peter’s hair with an exasperated eye roll.

“Does this mean they’re staying?” asks Peter, shaking with joy in his seat. Nat locks his wheelchair so it doesn’t jostle.

“If they want to.”

“We’re still a family!” Peter cries. He laughs and laughs and it sets Clint off too. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”

Tony eyes Steve with something cautious but knowing. “We sure are.”

With his free hand, he pops open the briefcase. It’s got a brand new, shiny metal arm complete with carbon fibre plate joints, lined in foam.

Bruce gasps. “Is that—”

“Vibranium,” Tony confirms. “I started designing this before everything went to hell and made a few calls to Wakanda. They were more than willing to cooperate when they heard the full story.”

Peter says what Tony apparently can’t. He takes Bucky’s hand. “It’s your family too if you want it.”

Bucky’s eyes are blown wide, lips pulled back, breath leaving him in shallow puffs.

“Buck?” Steve steps closer. “You okay?”

“No!” Bucky looks imploringly at Tony. “This isn’t right. All I’ve done is take and take. You can’t just…_give_ me something like this! Especially not you!”

“Sure I can. I didn’t even pay for it.” It rolls so easily off Tony’s tongue with a very calculated nonchalance that almost seems real.

“It’s called grace,” says Sam to Bucky quietly. “He’s offering you reconciliation, man.”

Tony’s clearly still shaken, still hurt, yet he looks at Bucky with an earnest expression. “I’ll be honest, there’s still a part of me that wants to slaughter you where you stand, vengeance. But that’s not a real solution. We need to find a better one.”

Steve’s eyes well up.

“There’s always another way,” says Tony. “You taught me that. I can’t promise this will work…but I’m willing to try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony's choice to try and forgive is a controversial one, I know. But the seedling thought for this whole story was that Peter's presence, how he gets involved and how he's both saved and saves them, would be a balm to the relationship between Tony, Steve, and Bucky once the truth comes out.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m okay, Peter.”
> 
> “Happy tears?”
> 
> “Yeah.” Steve smiles. He nods at Tony. “Happy tears: I finally get to have both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it, folks! Thank you so much for reading! :D

'Is that courage or faith  
To show up every day?  
To trust that there will be light  
Always waiting behind  
Even the darkest of nights

And no matter what  
Somehow we'll be okay...  
Don't be afraid.'

"Six" ~ Sleeping At Last

“Has he decided yet?” asks Peter, where he’s being carried on Steve’s hip to the kitchen. “Tell me he’s decided. He has to have—it’s been two weeks since King T’Challa’s offer and he’s barely left his room and—”

“Pete.” Steve laughs. “Breathe. Buck will decide in his own good time.”

Peter frowns.

_He can’t choose cryo-freeze over staying here. He can’t._

As if reading his mind, Steve shakes his head. “He’s afraid of hurting us. Of hurting _you_, really, because all the programming they gave him is still in there. Zemo activated him in five minutes flat. It scares him.”

“Being frozen won’t fix that. It just delays the inevitable, meaning he’ll still have to deal with it when he gets out.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” Steve mumbles under his breath.

Peter tenses in anticipation of being set on his feet. He’s careful not to push on the still-tender, almost-healed fracture of Steve’s shoulder. “You don’t have to carry me. That’s what the wheelchair is for.”

“Humour me.”

“Don’t I do that every day?”

Steve swats the back of his head. “Cheeky kid.”

Peter giggles. “So are you!”

“Sure, but we can’t let the others know that.”

Steve sets Peter down like he’s a china doll, which is infuriating and heartwarming all at once, right at the kitchen entrance. Peter waits for Steve to remove his hands so he can begin the usual lunch time practice of walking on his own.

It hasn’t been a complete failure the last two days—being that he only fell twice instead of the usual slip for every step—so Peter takes it as a win. He’s just finished physical therapy with Bruce for the morning and wants to see if it’s making a difference.

Bruce _promised_ that if Peter walks the fifteen feet from the kitchen entrance to the fridge, without falling once, he can go back to school.

And Peter dearly misses school.

It’s that or the wheelchair and Peter doesn’t want to use it, to feel abnormal with his classmates.

“Just take the wheelchair to class,” says Steve, reading his thoughts yet again. “Nobody will care. Aren’t there kids who can’t walk at your school?”

“Well,_ yeah_, but I used to be able to and now I can’t. That’s worse. For the other kids, not walking _is_ their normal. I want to go back to school like my old self.”

Steve hesitates and so does Peter, realizing the impossibility of these words.

“Your healing factor is taking care of it faster than we expected,” Steve reassures him. Peter breathes a silent sigh of relief at the change in topic. “This would be a six month process, minimum, for a normal human.”

“Yuck it up, you insensitive jerks.” Clint smiles around a samosa. “There’s a ‘normal human’ sitting right here.”

Peter laughs and then it turns into a groan when Clint holds his hands out with a ‘come to papa’ face. “I am not two years old!”

“Of course not,” says Clint. “You just walk like one.”

“Hey!”

Steve cants his head. “And right now you’re not even doing that. It’s okay, Frodo. Just try.”

Peter’s bravado and humour leaves him at the prospect of failing. It’s a small stretch of floor by normal standards. It shouldn’t be that hard.

Steve gives him a nudge with knuckles to the back of his spine and Peter wobbles forward.

“That’s it.” Clint praises him as he goes, all teasing gone. “Smaller steps, just like we practiced.”

“And no sticky feet,” Nat throws in, shuffling past him for the kettle. “That’s cheating.”

Peter bites his lip to concentrate on contracting the right muscles at the right time. His feet roll heel to toes, as Bruce drilled into him. He can feel his legs, they just don’t always remember what to _do_.

His left knee wobbles and he gasps.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, walking along behind him. “Push off. You got it.”

What do you know—Peter makes it all the way to the fridge!

And promptly crumples. Steve catches him on the descent, swinging him back up into his arms. “You did it!”

“Now you’re all just being patronizing.”

“His first steps,” Bruce crows from where he apparently has been lurking in the doorway. He holds up his phone, flashing as it records. “This one’s going in the album!”

“No,” Nat drawls. “_That _is patronizing.”

“Forgive me if I want to get in on some milestones here.” Bruce takes the other stool. “We didn’t meet Peter until he was fourteen. We missed all this stuff!”

“Uh…this stuff was caused by a back injury,” Peter points out.

“Which forced you how to relearn to walk—hence your first steps!”

Clint leans near Steve to stage whisper in Peter’s ear. “Let him have this.”

Bruce doesn’t take the bait. He frowns while glancing around. “Where’s Barnes? Did someone take him lunch already? I have news for him.”

Peter perks up, forcing Steve to juggle his weight so he can lean forward. “I’ll take him lunch.”

Clint rolls his eyes at the same time Bruce sighs.

“We’ve had this conversation already,” says Steve patiently, though the _‘many times’_ is loud and clear. “Bucky specifically asked Friday to lock you out. He’s scared to be around you after what happened in Siberia.”

“It’s dumb,” Peter says, brows drawn low, angry.

“It sure is,” says Clint. He and Steve share a weighted look.

Nat holds up her mug. “Compromise—Steve goes with you.”

“That could work,” Steve admits.

“What will work?”

Peter smiles. “Bucky!”

They turn and there he is, standing uncertainly in the doorway, hand visible and at his side.

Steve eyes him intently. The ex-soldier is in a long sleeve polo, left sleeve tied back since he refuses to use the arm Tony designed until he’s assured he won’t hurt someone without realizing. His hair is in a low ponytail.

He looks…polished.

Peter is ecstatic. He hasn’t really seen the man since the lobby incident two weeks ago.

Bucky’s worn eyes gentle into something tender. “Hey, malysh. Heard you made the full walk.”

“Without help,” Peter adds, with a significant look at Bruce. “Which, you know, means I could certainly walk down a _hallway_ with just a cane. Like, a hallway filled with other kids.”

Bruce tries to stifle a laugh and is almost successful. “You’re cleared for school on Monday, Pete. I’m a man of my word.”

“Yes!”

Tony materializes beside Bucky and nods to Bruce. “I told him about Shuri’s analysis.”

“Wakanda cooperated? Told you their full story?”

Tony nods. “Seems they’ve had a change of heart as a nation and want to announce their technological status to the world.”

“About time,” Nat mutters into her tea.

“You knew?” Tony puts a hand to his chest in mock betrayal.

“Tony, I’ve infiltrated the North Korean border ten different ways and you’re asking if I know a private nation’s secret?”

“…Point taken.”

Peter looks between the adults and their animated looks. “What? What’s going on?”

Bruce adjusts his glasses. “I wasn’t lying to you, Steve, that day in the infirmary—I really did make Barnes’ neural state a top priority. I’ve been studying psychological programming and I think we, along with the lovely kid genius, have found a way to rewrite Bucky’s synapses, isolating the ones around his hippocampus.”

Steve blinks.

Peter taps the wrist around his knees. “He means they might be able to take the brainwashing out.”

“I know what it means, Pete.” Steve’s voice is kind but taught, a rope about to snap. “I just realize that this will force Bucky, he’ll have to…”

Bucky, normally so blank faced, so guarded, lets loose an expression of such fond amusement that even Nat straightens.

_This is what Bucky Barnes looked like before the war. This is him inside._

“Punk,” says Bucky to Steve. “I’m not flying to Wakanda. I can’t run from this problem anymore. No cryo-freeze, never again. I’ve had enough for two lifetimes.”

Steve’s ribs catch against Peter’s. The man’s eyes are wide. “Does this mean you’re staying? You’ve decided?”

Then Peter realizes the sleeve isn’t tied—Bucky’s left arm is hidden behind his back.

He brings it out, revealing the freshly waxed plates of the arm.

Tony admires his handiwork smugly. “He finally let me install it. The nerve-to-electrode signals need some tuning but it’s even more effective than his old one.”

That’s a bombshell in the room for a solid minute.

It’s a testament to Tony’s concerted effort to forgive the former sniper that he was willing to give him back the very prosthetic that nearly killed Peter.

It’s forgiving _Steve_ that has been the hardest. By a long shot.

There have been a few tense moments and hushed arguments in the past days. Tony slapped him once. Yet there’s hope, a light at the end of the tunnel, that trust can be formed again.

Nobody has told Peter the whole story but he’s not stupid. He put a few pieces together.

“Like you said.” Bucky gazes warmly at Steve. “How about a compromise—I’ve bought a little apartment in Manhattan. I need time to figure my brain out, but I’ll still be nearby. I have to be for these neural therapy sessions.”

“Sessions?” Peter asks.

Bruce winks. “With yours truly and some leading psychiatrists and neurologists from around the world.”

Steve’s breaths are short and Peter reaches up to pat the flushed cheeks.

“I’m okay, Peter.”

“Happy tears?”

“Yeah.” Steve smiles. He nods at Tony. “Happy tears: I finally get to have both.”

Peter doesn’t know what this means but Tony must because he immediately deflects with a flapping hand gesture to cover up his reddening neck and touched eyes.

“Congratulations on the arm,” says Peter. “We’re both hitting a milestone.”

Bucky lights up. “I’ve been saving it until I heard what the Wakandans had to say—and so I can do this.”

He steps forward and tugs Peter out of Steve’s arms. Steve holds Peter out so he doesn’t fall. Tony watches but doesn’t intervene, resolved. His eyes are keen, though a faint smile trails across his face at the sight.

Peter throws his arms around Bucky’s neck. The man’s chest is stocky compared to Steve’s, meeting his perfectly, and the hand under his knees is colder due to the metal. His right holds Peter in a claw shape unlike any of the others, like he’s remembering the feel of a rifle or another small person.

It’s new.

It’s _home_. Peter didn’t even realize he was missing this piece of the jigsaw puzzle that makes up his family until he met Bucky. The man fits perfectly in their cracked portrait.

Bruce snaps another picture. “This is going in the album too!”

Clint steals a sip of Nat’s tea. “We’re becoming a bunch of grandmas. Softies…”

“Like you’re any better,” Nat huffs, grabbing the mug back out of reach. “We’re all a hot mess.”

“Yes,” says Tony. “But we’re a hot mess _together_.”

Clint grins.

Peter closes his eyes in the dark hair and his world slots into place. _Whole_. Over his shoulder, he reaches out for Tony’s hand and when it obliges, clasping his, he squeezes it.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Tony’s eyes go maudlin with an overflow of love. It’s perhaps the most exposed and free Peter has ever seen him. Like liquid gold sealing up the cracks in a vase, Peter knows that love, from Tony and all the rest, will make them stronger than they ever were on their own.

In answer, Tony pats Bucky’s metal hand. “Welcome home, Sergeant Barnes.”

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Written August - November 2018, during an absolutely horrendous time in my life. But this story made it a little brighter, and hopefully will do the same for anyone who reads it.
> 
> There's a one shot next to wrap up this arc and then I'm planning another full story. Thank you so much for faithfully following this crazy found family on its journey! 
> 
> Soundtrack for this story is "Six" by Sleeping at Last.


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